Page 3 of Sinful Claim


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After carefully planning this trip around the prospect of a new product, I’ve been let down once again.

There’s nobody on my end worth blaming, at least not at this point. Since I’ve taken over the Bratva, I’ve come to anticipate stupid fuck-ups like this on a regular basis. However, this is much further than I’ve traveled for such a disappointment in the past, and it’s only a matter of time before I lose more than just a few thousand dollars.

The location of this casino should have been a big enough indication that I was about to waste my time. It’s close enough to the airport to allow for my alleged business partners to vanish instantly if things were to go south, and they must have pulled out of the operation before they even had the chance to make a mistake.

The only silver lining here is that now I know that I have dodged a major bullet in terms of who I share my success with. An entire group of men who stake their lives in this business should be able to exchange product for cash, no problem. There’s no reason to flee from a prospective business partner unless you know for a fact that the product is garbage or you’ve miscalculated something major.

Either way, I’m walking away with nothing.

I’ve received word from one of my men that the briefcase left on the Blackjack table contains nothing of value to me at all. It was nothing but a decoy to divert my attention, and now that I’ve been made aware of this, all I can do is wait to see what was in store for me.

I’ve been glancing around the room aimlessly for what feels like three hours, looking for a reason to call in backup. So far, all I’ve seen are two fights among a group of blacked-out men in a bachelor party and a woman slap her husband for staring too long at a cocktail waitress. The whole atmosphere is exactly what I would expect for a place like this, and I have to say that the culture of gambling is an embarrassment to the Americans.

Yet here I am.

Typically, I refuse to drink on nights when I do business with a new client, but since said client has refused to appear, I decide to break my rule just for one night. After all, I might still have the chance to make some connections, and a sober man in a huge casino might come across as more of a red flag than a mildly drunken one.

I approach the bar, struggling to decide between vodka and bourbon, when I notice a flash of bright auburn hair skirt past me.

Her entire demeanor is suspicious, but I admit that this isn’t the main characteristic of her that draws my eyes. Her hair is the perfect shade of orange copper, catching the low light in a way that gives her an ethereal glow. The dress she’s wearing clings to her curvy figure, and I can’t help but watch the way her hips sway as she walks.

After I’ve spent ten minutes watching her, I’m led to believe that she’s come here specifically to attract someone to bring up to her room. There are no men tailing her or even interacting with her much - leaving a woman like her on her own in such a place would be a shameful act if any man had accompanied her here.

So, what’s she doing?

She continues to trot around the perimeter of the casino aimlessly, and I lose her for a moment as I begin to consider my next moves.

My brother Adam had been avoiding my calls and texts all morning, which had been grating on my nerves until I learned that none of my other men had been able to connect with him, either. He’s not the most effective communicator ever, but he knows better than to disappear without letting someone know. The single time he let his phone die on a night out, I smacked him hard enough to leave a bruise for a solid two weeks. In this business, you don’t go rogue. Ever.

If nobody else has heard from him all day, I have reason to believe that he’s in trouble. Given the suspicious circumstances of our failed meeting, I think this whole thing has been a trap from start to finish.

The trouble is figuring out what my adversary has gained from putting me through so many hoops.

I haven’t given up any information that would render me vulnerable to anyone. This could be the reason that the other party has decided to abandon the arrangement altogether. Maybe another Bratva leader had been careless and given them an inflated sense of proficiency for conning other people.

Whatever the reason is, I’m growing tired of the endless list of considerations. The mission has failed, and I’m ready to leave. I need to find my brother.

I didn’t even think I was in the market for more product until I found out that a new research chemical had hit the market. Well, it hadbarelyhit the market when I first learned about it, and as soon as I found a distributor, I was ready to jump on it.

Apparently, this new drug is supposed to be a cheaper version of methamphetamine with a cleaner high and an easier come down. I never thought such a thing could exist, but when I learned about the elite laboratories that had been commissioned to synthesize it, I realized I didn’t have time to deliberate. I needed to corner the market before my greatest competitor, and worst enemy, got his hands on it.

I’ve made a game out of trying to figure out who is on which drug as I scan the room. Some people are obvious, like the cokeheads who have come into far purer shit than they can get back home in Illinois or Ohio. Then there are the pillheads, nodding off at the slot machines with their mouths hanging open. It’s pitiful to see it in action, and a pang of guilt settles into my stomach as I realize that my livelihood is instrumental in the creation of such people.

However, I could never let my guilt eat at me too much when I know that people like Grisha exist.

Even in Bratva terms, Grisha is the most sociopathic, vicious person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. He’s hardly three tiers above being an animal, and he prides himself on torturing his customers if they’re unable to pay for their weekly fix.

Some of these people need a new supply every three days before they run out and go into withdrawals. He knows this, and he allows them to run up an insane amount of debt before he decides to cut them off. Sometimes, I wonder if he does it just for the sick thrill of watching someone plead with him, screaming and crying, as his men approach them with a bolo knife to chop off one of their fingers.

I’ve heard stories of him forcing dope-sick customers to commit heinous acts for him in order to get their fix. It doesn’t take a genius to know that a desperate junkie is a compliant junkie, and Grisha managed to turn this knowledge into a business. He’s a truly evil man, and I’ve seen a spectrum of evil more colorful than a Jamaica sunset. Grisha puts most career criminals to shame even on his off days.

My deliberation is broken as a familiar pretty face crosses me again. The warm red glow of her hair draws my eyes once more, and I watch as she suspiciously paces toward a drunk old man a few tables away from me. I’d be disgusted if I saw her walk away with him, but she snaps back almost as quickly as she approaches him. He must have said something vulgar and inappropriate, which wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.

At least I know she has some self-worth.

But what is she doing now?

I watch her eyes shift across the room before she steps right on up to the worthless briefcase, grabbing it from the tabletop and strutting away with it. She’s clearly flustered and upset by whatever the old man said, so I’m impressed by her ability to play the whole thing off as she walks away.

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