Page 8 of Sin Wager
"You're full of surprises," she says as the song ends. "Most horse owners I've met wouldn't know how to dance."
"I'm not most horse owners," I tell her, spinning her out one last time as the song fades to a finish.
We return to our table, and I order another round without consulting her preferences. The gesture is possessive rather than considerate, establishing my willingness to make decisions on her behalf. She notices but doesn't object, which tells me she's more comfortable with masculine authority than feminist ideology might suggest.
"Tell me about your family's journey from Ukraine," I say, steering the conversation toward territory where her emotional investment will override her caution. "That must have been difficult."
"Batya—my father—worked construction in Kiev. Good work, steady money, but the political situation kept gettingworse. When I was seventeen, he decided we needed to start over somewhere safer."
"Brave decision. Not everyone has the courage to abandon everything familiar for an uncertain future."
"He's a brave man. Everything he's done has been for Elvin and me."
The pride in her voice when she discusses her father's sacrifices reveals another pressure point. She values courage, selflessness, the willingness to endure hardship for others' benefit. Qualities I can project through careful self-presentation.
"What does he think of your work at the track?"
"He worries. Batya sees danger everywhere, consequences that might not materialize. He fled one corrupt system only to find himself surrounded by another."
"Wise men often worry about things that seem harmless to others. Experience teaches caution."
"Sometimes, caution becomes paralysis. You can't live your whole life avoiding risks."
Her statement carries personal weight, justifying her decision to work for people whose true nature she prefers not to examine too closely. She's convinced herself that moderate risks are acceptable if they serve sufficiently important goals. The rationalization makes her vulnerable to escalation, each step deeper into corruption justified by the previous step's apparent success.
"Risk and reward are inseparable," I agree. "The question is whether you're taking calculated risks or blind ones."
"I'm not blind. I know what I'm doing."
The defensive edge in her voice suggests otherwise, but I let the subject drop. Pushing too hard, too quickly could trigger the wariness that keeps her alive in a world where naive people become casualties with disturbing frequency.
Instead, I shift to safer topics—her work with the horses, the challenges of stable management, the personalities of different breeds. She relaxes again, her passion for the animals evident in every word. This is her authentic self, the person she becomes when not calculating survival strategies or managing family crises.
The evening progresses with calculated spontaneity. I share carefully edited stories about my own background—business ventures that sound impressive without revealing criminal connections, family obligations that demonstrate loyalty without exposing vulnerabilities. She reciprocates with increasing openness, wine and attention making her forget the caution that normally governs her interactions with strangers.
"I should probably head home," she says as the bar begins emptying around us. "Elvin worries if I'm out too late."
"Of course. Let me walk you out."
I settle the bill while she gathers her coat, noting how she waits for me to guide our departure rather than taking initiative herself. The deference is unconscious but telling—she's already begun to defer to my judgment in small matters.
The Moscow night carries the bite of winter, cold enough to justify walking closer together than strict propriety might dictate. I keep my hand at her back as we move toward the street, maintaining physical connection while appearing to offer protection from both weather and the city's nocturnal predators.
"I had a wonderful time," she says as we reach the corner where our paths diverge. "Thank you for dinner, and the rose, and… everything."
"The pleasure was entirely mine. I'd like to see you again, if you're willing."
"I'd like that too."
The admission comes without coyness or calculation, simple honesty that makes my chest tighten with unfamiliar emotion.I've spent the evening manipulating her responses, noting her weaknesses, planning the systematic destruction of her current loyalties. But standing here in the lamplight with her face tilted up toward mine, I find myself wanting things that have nothing to do with information extraction or territorial disputes.
She agrees so readily that I realize she's already begun measuring time by our next meeting rather than the demands of her current existence.
I watch her walk away until the darkness swallows her figure, then remain on the corner for several more minutes processing what just occurred. The evening proceeded exactly according to plan—she's interested, trusting, vulnerable to a sustained campaign that would turn her into a willing asset rather than an unwitting pawn.
But something else happened tonight, something I didn't anticipate and can't afford to acknowledge. For three hours, I forgot I was conducting an interrogation. For three hours, I genuinely enjoyed her company, her intelligence, the way she laughs at observations that most people would find too cynical to be amusing.
The realization should concern me, but I find myself looking forward to tomorrow evening with anticipation. The thought follows me home through empty streets, a complication I didn't plan for in a game where emotional investment represents the most dangerous weakness of all.
