Tangled in Sin

SINISTER KRYLOV

Sinister walked away from the glittering gala, his steps deliberate and unhurried. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses faded behind him, replaced by the quiet hum of his thoughts. He didn't need to turn around to know that his prey had moved exactly where he wanted him to. Alexei Karpov was a fool—a man who thought he could outwit the Bratva, that he could play both sides without consequence.

Karpov's betrayal was a mistake, and Sinister would ensure it was his last.

The corridors of the grand venue were eerily quiet as Sinister followed the trail of his target. His footsteps were measured, his expression unreadable. He was a predator in the hunt, and the thrill of it—the precise, calculated movements, the inevitability of his strike—was the closest thing he felt to satisfaction.

Ahead, Karpov slipped into a private lounge, his nervous glances giving him away. Sinister waited a moment before stepping forward, his gloved hand closing around the door handle. He entered soundlessly, locking the door behind him.

Inside, Karpov was pouring himself a glass of brandy, his back turned. It wasn't until the faint click of the lock reached his ears that he froze, the glass trembling slightly in his hand.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice sharp with panic.

Sinister stepped out of the shadows, his cold gaze fixed on the man before him. "You know who I am, Alexei."

Karpov turned, his face pale as he took in the sight of Sinister Krylov—the head of the Bratva, the embodiment of ruthlessness. "M-Mister Krylov," he stammered, forcing a nervous smile. "I wasn't expecting—"

"You weren't expecting to be held accountable," Sinister interrupted, his voice a quiet menace. "You thought you could betray me, funneling money to our rivals, and walk away unscathed."

"No, no," Karpov protested, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "It's not what you think! I was forced into it. I didn't have a choice—"

Sinister raised a hand, silencing him with a single, commanding gesture. "Spare me your excuses. I'm not interested in your lies."

Karpov's eyes darted toward the door, weighing his chances of escape. Sinister noticed the movement and allowed himself a faint, humorless smile.

"You won't make it," he said simply.

Before Karpov could utter another word, Sinister drew his silenced pistol and fired. The muted sound of the shot echoed briefly in the room before fading into silence. Karpov's body crumpled to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

Sinister stepped forward, crouching beside the body to retrieve the man's phone. He slipped it into his pocket, evidence of the betrayal that would serve his plans later. Rising to his feet, he pulled out his own phone and sent a brief message: Clean-up. Private lounge. Now.

Within minutes, two of his men entered the room. They worked efficiently, lifting Karpov's body and preparing to dispose of it. Sinister gave them a curt nod before leaving, the matter already fading from his mind.

The cold night air greeted him as he stepped outside, the distant hum of the city a stark contrast to the quiet efficiency of his work. He slid into the backseat of his car, his expression unreadable.

"Home," he instructed Viktor, his voice calm.

The drive to his mansion was uneventful, the city's lights flashing by in a blur. By the time they arrived, it was late—well past midnight. The grand estate loomed ahead, its windows dark against the night sky.

Sinister stepped out of the car, his movements precise as he made his way inside. The mansion was silent, the staff long since retired for the night. The faint echo of his footsteps against the marble floor was the only sound as he ascended the grand staircase.

He was halfway up when a voice broke the stillness.

"Sinister."

He stopped, his hand resting on the banister as he turned to see Kairav standing at the base of the stairs.

Kairav was dressed in his pajamas, his dark eyes sharp and filled with a mixture of concern and disapproval. His arms were crossed, and his frown deepened as he studied Sinister's face.

"You're late," Kairav said, his voice calm but firm.

Sinister regarded him for a moment, his features as impassive as ever. "I had work to take care of," he replied simply.

Kairav's frown didn't soften, but he didn't press further. Instead, he asked, "Have you eaten?"

Sinister hesitated, caught off guard by the question. Before he could respond, Kairav turned and walked toward the kitchen, motioning for him to follow.

The soft glow of the kitchen lights illuminated the room as Kairav moved with practiced efficiency, retrieving a plate of food from the refrigerator. He didn't say a word as he placed it in the microwave, the hum of the appliance filling the silence.

Sinister stood by the counter, his gaze fixed on Kairav. The younger man's movements were brisk but not unkind, his presence a strange blend of warmth and detachment.

When the food was ready, Kairav placed the plate in front of him and gestured for him to eat. "Sit," he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Sinister obeyed, lowering himself into the chair and picking up the fork. Kairav sat across from him, his eyes steady as he watched Sinister eat in silence.

When the meal was finished, Kairav stood and took the plate, rinsing it in the sink before placing it in the dishwasher.

"Good night, Sinister," he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that Sinister couldn't bring himself to acknowledge.

As Kairav turned to leave, Sinister's eyes lingered on his back. The curve of his shoulders, the way his dark hair brushed against the nape of his neck—it all stirred something deep within him.

Kairav wasn't just his twin brother Ilyin's husband. He was Sinister's first love, his past lover, and the one person who had managed to breach the walls he had so carefully constructed around his heart.

But those days were long gone, buried beneath the weight of duty and betrayal.

As Kairav disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, Sinister allowed himself a moment of quiet longing. His hand clenched into a fist, the ache in his chest a familiar reminder of everything he had lost.

Without a word, he turned and made his way to his room. The weight of the night pressed down on him as he closed the door, shutting out the world. He sank into the solitude of his room, the darkness wrapping around him like an old, familiar companion.

Tomorrow would bring more blood, more shadows. But for now, he allowed himself to feel the ache, the fleeting memory of what could never be.