Page 23 of Sin Wager
"I mean you're a smart girl who understands that loyalty is rewarded, but betrayal…" She shrugs delicately. "Well. You have a brother to think about, don't you?"
She won't come out and threaten me directly, but the point is made. I grip the envelopes tighter, feeling the paper crinkle under my fingers.
"I understand."
"Excellent. Same time tomorrow for the results."
She walks away, her heels clicking against the concrete. I watch her stop near the jockey quarters, where she strikes up a conversation with Tommy Kozlov, one of the newer riders. Their heads bend together in quiet conversation, and something about their body language makes my stomach twist.
Back in Storm's End's stall, I lean against the wall and try to steady my breathing. Sonya knows. Maybe not the details, but she suspects I'm becoming involved in something that could interfere with her plans. The mention of Elvin wasn't casual. It was a reminder that she holds my brother's life in her hands.
But Misha offered to help. He said he could handle the situation, make it so I didn't have to run errands for dangerous people anymore. The memory of his voice, confident and sure, gives me hope. Especially the part where he said he knows someone who could help with the expensive medical bills. I don’t know what he meant, but after last night, I know he meant it.
The problem is, I don't know what world Misha really lives in. He owns horses, lives in a beautiful house, drives an expensive car. But there were moments last night when I glimpsed something harder underneath the charm. The way he talked about survival, about protecting people who matter to him. The darkness in his eyes when he touched me.
What if getting involved with him puts him in danger? What if Sonya decides he's a threat to her operation?
I think about the way he made me feel last night—safe, desired, important. For the first time in years, someone wanted to take care of me instead of the other way around. But is it selfish to risk his safety for my own happiness?
The envelopes feel heavy in my pocket as I finish grooming Storm's End. Three more errands for Sonya, three more steps deeper into whatever game she's playing. But maybe, if I'm careful, I can find a way out.
Maybe Misha really can help.
I just have to decide whether I'm brave enough to let him try.
10
MISHA
The confirmation comes through my phone at eleven thirty, and I read it twice before the implications sink in. My tail sends three photos—Sonya Radich sliding an envelope across a table to a man with scars running down his jaw, another shot of her shaking hands with a second enforcer outside a parking garage, and a final image of cash changing hands in broad daylight. The Radich bitch isn't even trying to hide anymore.
I lean back in my office chair and stare at the photos again. The woman pulling Vera's strings has been busy, and now I know exactly how busy. Two enforcers, regular meetings, cash flowing both directions. This isn't small-time manipulation anymore. This is war preparation.
My phone buzzes with a text from Gregor.
Gregor: 5:32 PM: Shuttle's down. Maintenance says alternator fried. Won't be running today.
Perfect. I arranged for that alternator to fail this morning, and now Vera will need a ride home. Another chance to get close, another opportunity to dig deeper into whatever web the Radich crew has spun around her. I slide the phone into my jacket and head for the door.
I pass Vadim's desk without stopping, ignoring his questioning look as I push through the main entrance. The afternoon sun beats down on the asphalt, and I can smell dust and horse sweat carried on the wind from the stables.
My phone rings as I reach my car. The caller ID shows a number I recognize but never want to see.
"Vetrov."
"We have a problem." Nikolai Barinov's voice cuts through the speaker. The fixer assigned to watch me sounds tired, which means he's been busy. That's never good news for anyone.
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind that gets people buried in unmarked graves if they don't fix it fast enough." He pauses, and I hear traffic in the background. "There was a race yesterday. Third heat, horse named Lucky Strike. Long odds, maybe twenty-to-one. Should have finished dead last based on every piece of data we have."
I know where this is going, but I let him talk.
"Lucky Strike won by three lengths. Clean race, no obvious tampering, but the payout was massive. Someone made a fortune, and it wasn't random luck."
"The jockey?"
"A new kid, been riding for maybe six months. Here's the interesting part—he's claiming innocence. Says he rode to win and the horse just had a good day."
