SINISTER
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 froze, instinctively turning toward the sound of the voice. Standing in the hallway, his arms crossed over his chest, was Kai—his twin brother Ilyin's husband.
Kai stood tall and imposing, but there was a softness in his eyes, the kind that could never fully conceal his concern. His expression was a mix of curiosity and something else—perhaps worry.
Sinister didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on Kai for a moment before he raised an eyebrow.
"Why are you still up?" Sinister's tone was as cold as ever, a stark contrast to the warmth Kai exuded. His voice, however, betrayed a hint of a weariness that wasn't entirely in line with his usual icy demeanor.
Kai's frown deepened. "I should be asking you the same thing," he responded, stepping closer. "You're late. What were you doing?"
Sinister didn't offer an explanation, knowing Kai wasn't likely to let the matter drop. It had been a long night, and Sinister wasn't in the mood for a lecture. But he had no desire to evade Kai's questions either.
"I had some work to take care of," Sinister said, his voice steady, his eyes not quite meeting Kai's. He was not one for small talk, especially not with someone who had once shared his bed, his heart. "Why are you still awake?"
Kai didn't answer at first. Instead, he shifted his gaze slightly before sighing. "I couldn't sleep," he said. Then, without waiting for a response, he glanced at the hallway, as though remembering something. "You haven't eaten, have you?"
The question wasn't asked out of mere politeness. It was a routine between them, something that had always been a part of their shared life. Sinister was often too absorbed in his work to care about such trivial matters as food, but Kai, despite everything that had happened, still took it upon himself to look after him.
Sinister paused before answering. "No," he admitted, his voice softer now, though it still carried the weight of detachment. "I haven't eaten."
"Come on," Kai said, the slightest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He turned toward the kitchen without waiting for a reply, moving with the easy grace of someone who had become a permanent fixture in Sinister's life.
Sinister followed silently, his mind clouded with thoughts he didn't want to acknowledge. As they entered the kitchen, Kai immediately went to the stove, setting about heating something Sinister hadn't even noticed.
Sinister took a seat at the kitchen counter, watching as Kai moved with effortless skill, humming under his breath as he worked. The room was quiet except for the soft clink of utensils and the gentle hum of the microwave. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—a comfortable silence that neither of them found uncomfortable. It was the silence of old habits, of things left unsaid, but no less important for that.
Kai placed a plate in front of Sinister, the aroma of something warm and homey filling the air. Sinister didn't speak, simply picking up his fork and digging in. He didn't need to say anything. His hunger, both physical and emotional, was always silent. Kai sat across from him, his eyes steady as he watched Sinister eat in silence.
When the meal was finished, Kai 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.
Sinister didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on Kai's retreating form as the man walked toward the hallway, ready to head to his own room. There was a tenderness in Sinister's gaze, a longing that wasn't easy to mask.
Kai... The name was both a balm and a wound.
Kairav Singhania or now known as Kairav Krylov wasn't just Ilyin's husband. He was Sinister's first love. The one who had occupied a piece of Sinister's heart long before Ilyin had come into the picture. The man who had touched him in ways that no one else had. The one who, despite everything, still held a part of him.
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.