Page 1 of Sin Wager
1
VERA
The cold bites through my gloves as I shovel manure from the third stall, my breath forming white clouds in the dawn air. The horses shift restlessly in their stalls, sensing the tension that runs through Podsolnukh Racetrack even at this early hour. I've been mucking stalls since four thirty, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of the work, the scrape of the shovel against concrete drowning out the fears that circle my mind through every sleepless night.
Koschei snorts from his stall, pawing at the fresh bedding I spread an hour ago. The bay gelding has always been particular about his environment, demanding perfection in a way that reminds me of the people who now control my life. I've worked with him since he arrived at Podsolnukh two years ago, learning his moods and quirks, earning his trust through patient consistency. Trust—such a fragile thing in this world where loyalty can be bought and sold with the day's racing forms.
The stable door creaks open, letting in a gust of bitter wind that cuts through my wool jacket. Two jockeys walk past my stall, their voices carrying in hushed tones that make myshoulders tense. In this place, whispered conversations often carry information that can destroy lives.
"New bookie came in last week," the taller one says, pulling his coat tighter against the morning chill. "A Vetrov. Word is he's hunting for patterns in the payouts."
My shovel stops mid-scrape. The manure falls back into the wheelbarrow with a wet thud that seems to echo through my chest. The name means nothing to me, but the implications crawl up my spine with icy fingers.
"Vetrov?" The second jockey spits into the straw. "Heard he cleaned house in Moscow before they sent him here. Anyone skimming or running games is finished. They found the last bookie face-down in the Moskva River."
"This one's different. Rolan Vetrov's uncle. Family blood runs deep in that crew. He's not here to make friends. He's here to stop the bleeding."
They move past, their footsteps fading toward the tack room, but their words carve themselves into my skull. A new bookie. Family blood. Hunting for patterns. My betting record stretches back six months, each wager placed exactly as instructed, each win adding to a total that would raise questions from anyone looking close enough. It makes my pulse quicken.
The wheelbarrow feels heavier as I push it toward the next stall. My hands shake slightly—whether from cold or fear, I can't tell. The horses need their stalls clean. The work needs finishing. These are the small certainties I can control while everything else threatens to collapse around me.
I've been at Podsolnukh for three years now, taking stable jobs wherever I could since my family immigrated from Ukraine when I was seventeen. The work is honest—cleaning stalls, feeding horses, maintaining equipment that keeps these magnificent animals healthy and competitive. It pays enough to cover rent on the tiny apartment I share with my father andbrother, enough for groceries and utilities and the small luxuries that make poverty bearable.
But honest work doesn't pay for experimental cancer treatments. It doesn't cover the medications that keep my younger brother alive, doesn't fund the procedures that insurance companies dismiss as too costly, too risky, too uncertain. Honest work would have buried Elvin six months ago.
"Vera."
The voice cuts through the stable's morning calm and I turn to see Sonya Radich standing in the doorway. Her black coat is immaculate despite the mud and straw covering the stable floor. She looks out of place, comically so. And the way she carries herself—poised, alert, dangerous—tells me she doesn't know what it's like to scrape by and beg for scraps.
Sonya represents everything I will never be—polished, confident. She deals in subtleties, in implications, in the sort of power that ruins lives with a phone call or a disappointed expression. And I've learned it the hard way.
The first time we met, she offered me a solution to problems I hadn't even voiced aloud. The second time, she made it clear that solutions come with prices that compound over time.
She extends a folded piece of paper toward me, her manicured fingers looking more like talons on a bird of prey. "Today's selections."
I set the shovel against the stall door and take the paper, feeling its familiar texture between my fingers. The instructions will be written in Sonya's neat handwriting—race numbers, horse names, amounts to wager, account numbers for deposit and withdrawal. Each bet is calculated to extract maximum profit while appearing random enough to avoid suspicion. Or so I thought until five minutes ago.
"The amounts have increased," Sonya continues, watching my face for any flicker of resistance. Her eyes are dark,calculating. She evaluates me like this every time we meet, looks for weakness or hints that I may rebel. "Elvin's treatments are progressing well, I trust?"
My brother's name in her mouth makes my jaw clench. The casual way she wields it, turning his illness into leverage, his recovery into a chain that binds me to her instructions. Elvin doesn't know where the money comes from. He thinks our father's construction work has been more lucrative lately, that insurance finally approved coverage for his therapy. The lie sits heavily in my chest, but it's kinder than the truth.
"The treatments are helping," I say, folding the paper and slipping it into my jacket pocket. The weight of it feels disproportionate to its size. I'm only beginning to understand why.
"Good." Sonya's smile never reaches her eyes, remaining fixed and cold as a winter morning. "Consistency brings rewards, Vera. Remember that."
The threat lurks beneath her polite words which I know can just as easily be whispered into someone else's ear if she chooses. Consistency brings rewards, but inconsistency brings consequences that extend beyond my own fate. She turns to leave, then pauses at the door.
"There may be additional scrutiny in the coming weeks," she says without turning around. "New management often brings new policies. I trust you'll handle any questions with your usual discretion."
She leaves as quietly as she arrived, her footsteps swallowed by the sounds of horses shifting and birds waking outside the barn. I return to the stall, finishing the mucking while my mind churns through possibilities. A new bookie means new scrutiny. New scrutiny means questions I can't answer without destroying my ability to provide for Elvin.
The horses demand attention, and they don't ask questions about the source of their oats or wonder why their stable hand sometimes flinches at unexpected sounds. They exist in the present moment, trusting that their needs will be met, that their world will remain predictable and safe.
I envy them that simplicity.
An hour later, I lead Koschei toward the paddock for his morning exercise. The bay gelding moves with restless energy, his muscles coiled beneath his winter coat. His breath forms white clouds as we walk, his hooves creating a steady rhythm against the packed earth of the walkway. The familiar weight of the lead rope in my hand provides a small anchor of normalcy in a morning that feels increasingly unstable.
The paddock buzzes with morning activity. Trainers bark instructions to exercise riders with sharp voices. Stable hands lead horses in careful circles, checking for signs of lameness or distress. Veterinarians move between horses, their practiced eyes assessing condition and fitness. The familiar chaos of racetrack preparation unfolds around me, but today it feels charged with an undercurrent I can't name.
