All Chapters of A GAME OF LIES: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Montez nodded once, his face carved from stone. The click of his shoes against the cracked concrete echoed as he strode toward the steel doors. They swung open, darkness swallowing him whole. The air inside was thick with the stench of sweat and blood. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, casting a pale, sickly glow over the scene. In the center of the room, a man was tied to a chair. His clothes were torn, his face a canvas of bruises, blood dripping from a split lip. His eyes were wild with panic as they snapped to Montez the moment he entered. “No… no, please…” the man rasped, his voice hoarse from hours of pleading. Montez’s steps were slow, deliberate, the sound of his shoes against the floor like a drumbeat of doom. He crouched before the man, their faces inches apart. “Do you know who I am?” Montez’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. Too gentle. The man swallowed hard, nodding franticall

The SUV glided through the winding road like a predator moving into territory it didn’t belong in. The sleek black vehicle was a sharp contrast against the cracked concrete, rusted tin roofs, and litter-strewn streets that marked the Belmare slums. Rhea adjusted her sunglasses, her manicured nails drumming impatiently against the leather armrest. The stench of dampness and rot seeped through the sealed air conditioning vents, and she wrinkled her nose. God, what a place. How anyone could live here was beyond comprehension. Filthy, loud, crawling with rats both the animal and the human kind. And yet… this is where that little bitch lived for two years. This is the world that birthed Amira Santis. No wonder she reeks of desperation no matter how much Montez tries to dress her up. The SUV screeched to a halt, its glossy tires splashing muddy water across the sidewalk. Heads turned instantly. Men leaning against cru

The convoy rolled out of the De Vitalio estate just as dusk began to bleed into the horizon. The sky hung low and heavy, streaked with faint shades of crimson as though painted in warning. Engines hummed in unison, black-tinted cars weaving down the long stone drive like a procession of predators heading to the hunt. Amira sat stiffly in the leather backseat of the lead car. Beside her, Montez leaned against the corner of the seat, sharp in his dark suit, though the composure of his image was marred by the redness of his nose and the faint shadow of irritation etched under his eyes. He sneezed suddenly, violent enough to make his broad shoulders jolt forward. “Damn this shit.” He murmured a cuss. Amira blinked, clutching her clutch bag tighter. She couldn’t help it but as much as her heart lept with the triumph of seeing him so helpless, her stomach clenched with a twinge of guilt. The petal she had hidden in his suit earlier

Amira’s breath hitched, her heart thundering in her chest as Montez’s lips hovered dangerously close to hers. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his hand cupping her cheek, and the pull between them was magnetic—inescapable. All of a sudden, Knock. Knock. “Room service,” a polite male voice called from the other side of the door. And that moment was shattered. Amira jolted beneath him, her eyes wide, her pulse screaming in relief and embarrassment. Montez froze too, his gaze snapping toward the door, his jaw tightening in irritation at the intrusion. She wriggled out from under him before he could trap her again and practically bolted toward the door. She yanked it open just a crack, her body blocking most of the entry. “Yes?” she asked quickly, breathless. The young hotel attendant smiled uncertainly, holding a tray of fruit. “Complimentary refreshments, signora. Shall

As the night wore on, the dining hall stood ever gleaming like something out of an old Venetian palace, a place where men of power gathered to trade not just wine and words, but futures. A chandelier heavy with crystal threw shards of light over the long mahogany table, illuminating silver dishes and the glittering half-moons of wine glasses. Every detail had been staged to perfection; subtle wealth, understated dominance. At the head of the table sat Yanov Sergei, composed as a king on his throne, dark eyes burning with the quiet command of a man accustomed to obedience. The Russian industrialist whose influence stretched from Moscow to Dubai. His pale face was carved with the indifference of a man who had nothing left to prove. Around them clustered a half-dozen other men, each with their own territories, their own greed, their own doubts. And at Montez’s side, Amira. She looked every inch the