Page 12 of The Enforcer's Vow
"All right," I say. "But I choose the restaurant."
He nods. "Whatever you prefer."
"There's a café on Sokolnicheskaya Street. Café Luna. Eight o'clock."
"I'll be there."
I turn to go, then pause. "Maksim?"
"Yes?"
"That overdose victim—he was someone's son. Someone's brother." I meet his eyes. "I hope whoever sold those drugs knows that."
For a moment, his mask slips. I see something flicker across his face—not guilt, exactly, but acknowledgment. Then it's gone, and he's smiling again.
"I'm sure they do," he says quietly.
Inside the track, I go through the motions of my job. I count money, update ledgers, process bets. My hands move automatically while my mind replays every word of our conversation.
Maksim knows about Damir's involvement in the overdose. There's no doubt about that now. The question is whether he knows I know or if he thinks I'm genuinely ignorant of my brother's business.
During my lunch break, I find a quiet corner and pull out my phone. No new messages from Damir, which somehow makes me more nervous than hearing from him would. I considertexting him, asking if he's safe, but I can't risk it. Not when I'm sure Maksim or his people are watching.
Instead, I eat my sandwich and watch the horses practice on the track. They move with purpose, following patterns drilled into them through repetition. Trainer's commands, jockey's guidance, instinct refined into performance. I wonder if that's what I'm becoming—a trained animal, responding to cues I don't fully understand.
By the end of my shift, the routine has worn thin. Every glance from a supervisor feels loaded. Every question from a coworker carries the weight of scrutiny I can’t afford. I keep my head down, finish my counts, and walk out of there like nothing’s changed—but everything has. Maksim will be waiting tonight, and I don’t know if I’m going to that dinner as myself or as the woman I need to become to survive this.
Maksim is watching me. Damir is counting on me. And I’m stuck in the middle, playing both sides without knowing which one will break me first. The worst part? Some twisted part of me wants to see Maksim again. Wants to know what else he’s hiding behind that perfectly practiced charm. If I’m not careful, I won’t just lose this game. I’ll forget I’m playing it at all.
6
MAKSIM
Rolan's estate sprawls across forty acres of carefully manicured grounds, all stone walls and wrought iron gates. I drive through the main entrance at six in the evening, headlights cutting through the darkness that settles between ancient oak trees. The house itself rises from the landscape in elegant brutalism—clean lines, sharp angles, windows that reveal nothing of what happens inside.
I park beside the fountain in the circular drive and walk to the front door. The butler, a thin man with silver hair and no name I've ever learned, opens it before I can knock.
"Mr. Vetrov is expecting you in the study," he says.
I follow him through hallways lined with oil paintings—landscapes, mostly, scenes of Russian countryside that Rolan has never visited. The study door stands open. Rolan sits behind his desk, reading files by lamplight. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Close the door," he says.
I do, then take the chair across from him. The leather is soft, expensive, just his taste.
Rolan finishes reading and sets the file aside. When he looks at me, his eyes are the same hazel as mine, but colder. Age hasn't softened him—if anything, the gray at his temples makes him appear more dangerous.
"Tell me about the girl," he says. "I want your assessment."
I lean back in the chair, considering my words. "She's intelligent. Cautious. She doesn't trust easily, but she's not completely closed off."
"Is she useful?"
"She's compliant but guarded. I'm working on her." I loosen my tie and study his stern expression. It's the same look he has on his face every time I look at him.
Rolan's fingers drum against the desk surface. "Working on her how?"
"I'm building rapport, making her feel safe with me. She's responding, but slowly."
