Page 24 of Sin Wager
I unlock my car and slide into the driver's seat. "You believe him?"
"I believe the Radich family is playing a bigger game than we thought. This isn't about skimming betting profits anymore, Misha. They're rigging entire races. Your girl might be involved deeper than you know."
I don’t want to believe him, but I've learned in this business to never take any shred of evidence for granted. Vera, mixed up in race fixing on top of everything else? If that's true, then everyconversation we've had, every moment of vulnerability she's shown me, could be part of an elaborate performance.
"How deep?" I ask.
"Deep enough that if you don't get answers from her today, I'm going to get them my way. And if I have to handle this personally, you won't be around to see the results."
The threat is loud and obvious. Nikolai doesn't make empty promises. If he decides I'm part of the problem instead of the solution, I'll disappear just as thoroughly as the last bookie who couldn't keep the books balanced.
"I'll handle it."
"You have twenty-four hours. Find out what she knows about race fixing. Find out who's pulling her strings. And find out why the Radich crew thinks they can bleed us dry without consequences."
The line goes dead.
I sit in my car for a moment, letting the anger build. This job was supposed to be simple—clean up the betting operation, identify the leak, eliminate the problem. Instead, I'm dealing with a full-scale infiltration, race fixing, and a woman who's either the most convincing actress I've ever met or genuinely caught in the middle of a war she doesn't understand.
The fury comes in waves. First, at the Radich crew for thinking they can muscle into Vetrov territory. Second, at the situation that keeps expanding beyond my control. And third, at myself for letting Vera get under my skin when I should be treating her as nothing more than a source of information.
But underneath the anger, there's another feeling I don't want to examine too closely. Relief. More time with Vera means more opportunities to figure out what she knows. It also means more opportunities to touch her, to watch her eyes light up when I walk into a room, to hear her laugh at my dry observations about the other track workers.
I start the engine and head toward the stables.
The building is quieter than usual when I walk inside. Most of the day shift have finished their work, and only a few stragglers remain. I spot Vera immediately—she's standing next to Koschei's stall, running a brush over his neck with slow, methodical strokes. Her hair is pulled back in its usual braid, and there are dust streaks on her jeans.
She looks up when she hears my footsteps, and I see worry flash across her face before she manages a smile.
"Misha. I didn't expect to see you today."
"Checking on the horses." I move closer, stopping just outside the stall. "Koschei's had a good workout this morning. The track manager says he's ready for the weekend races."
She nods, but her attention is divided. I can see her glancing toward the stable entrance, probably waiting for the shuttle that isn't coming.
"Problem?"
"The shuttle broke down. Maintenance says they won't have it running until tomorrow." She sets down the brush and turns to face me fully. "It means I have to walk home after dark again…" Her voice lilts softly, and I know what she's playing at. My invitation to repeat last night again tonight has settled over her.
It's a perfect setup. I let a few seconds pass, as if I'm considering options.
"I can give you a ride again…" I step closer, warming to the idea of tasting her again. There's nothing in this arrangement that says I can't enjoy extracting the information, and I'm satisfied with myself for choosing this higher road instead of outright torture. It's more pleasurable for both of us.
Her face brightens immediately. "Really? I don't want to put you out."
"It's not a problem. You know I want to spend more time with you." I would drive to the other side of Moscow if it meant more time alone with her.
"Thank you. I just need to finish up here and grab my things."
I watch her move around the stall, checking water buckets and hay nets. Her attention to detail makes her good at this job. Every motion is controlled, purposeful. If she's acting, she's better at it than most professionals.
"Misha."
I turn toward the voice and see Pavel Gurevich walking in my direction. The jockey looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes, which flick nervously as he speaks to me. He's nervous, tense like he's hiding something.
"Pavel."
"Can we talk? About yesterday's race?"
