Page 31 of Sin Wager
"Family. Business. People I care about."
"In that order?"
"Not necessarily," I say carefully and wonder if I've underestimated her. She's intelligent and resourceful.
She nods as if that answer satisfies her, then returns her attention to her plate. But I catch her glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking, studying my face the way someone might study a puzzle they're trying to solve.
After lunch, we walk through GUM, the massive shopping complex that stretches along Red Square's eastern edge. Vera moves through the luxury stores, touching fabrics but checking price tags, admiring jewelry from a respectful distance.
"Pick something," I tell her as we pass a boutique filled with silk scarves and leather handbags.
"I don't need anything," she says, shaking her head, but I've seen the desire in her eyes for these nice things.
"That's not what I asked."
She stops in front of a display case filled with watches, her eyes drawn to a simple piece with a mother-of-pearl face. It's elegant without being ostentatious, something she might actually wear.
"That one," she says quietly.
I signal the sales associate, who produces the watch immediately. The price is insignificant by my standards, but I see Vera's eyes widen when she catches sight of the tag.
"Misha, I can't?—"
"Yes, you can."
I pay for the watch and fasten it around her wrist myself, my fingers brushing the soft skin at her pulse point. She shivers at the contact, and I feel an answering response in my chest. What is it about her that makes my body feel this way? She is nothing more than a mark, a woman who presents an in road to my opposition, and nothing more. But I like her. I like the way she makes my body feel things.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"You're welcome," I tell her, curling a hair around her ear as she admires me. This weekend with her was the best idea I've had in a long time.
My phone rings as we leave the store, and I see Nikolai's number on the display. The timing couldn't be worse, but I can't ignore a call from the fixer.
"I need to take this," I tell Vera. "Business."
She nods and drifts toward a nearby shop window while I step into an alcove between stores.
"Vetrov."
"Status report," Nikolai says without preamble.
"Under control."
"That's not specific enough. Do you have answers about the race fixing?"
I watch Vera through the shop window, studying a display of books. I love the childlike wonder in her eyes. "I'm working on it."
"Work faster. There was another suspicious payout yesterday. Third race, a horse called Desert Wind. Forty-to-one odds, massive win. The jockey's name is Pavel Gurevich."
The same jockey Vera defended at the stables. The coincidence feels too convenient to be random.
"I'll handle it."
"You'd better. Because if you don't, I will. And my methods are less gentle than yours."
The threat is clear. Nikolai doesn't care about collateral damage, doesn't care if Vera gets caught in the crossfire. If I don't get answers soon, he'll extract them his way, and she won't survive the process.
"Understood."
