Page 55 of Sin Wager
VERA
Sonya's envelope is thinner today, just a betting slip with numbers and accounts listed. There are three stops today instead of the usual five, but the amounts are larger. My stomach churns as I scan the schedule. The pattern makes no sense, keeps me moving in circles around the track instead of following the logical route that would get me back to work faster.
I fold the paper and slip it into my jacket pocket, trying to ignore the way my hands tremble. It's been three days since Misha warned me about staying close while he shadows my movements without making it obvious. Part of me feels safer knowing he's watching. The other part wonders what kind of businessman and horse owner can promise such complete protection.
The paddock buzzes with activity when I arrive. Trainers argue with officials about post positions while jockeys weigh in for the afternoon races. I join the payout line behind two men in expensive suits who smell of cologne and speak in rapid Russian about odds and spreads.
When my turn comes, the clerk takes my slip and disappears into the back room for longer than necessary. Through thewindow, I watch him make a phone call, gesturing at my paperwork. My pulse quickens.
"Is there a problem?" I ask when he returns.
"Just verification. Won't be a moment."
The delay stretches to five minutes, then ten. The men behind me start muttering complaints, but I can't leave without completing the transaction. Sonya made it clear what happens to people who don't follow instructions exactly. It terrifies me even with Misha watching my back. He thinks he can handle them, but I'm scared he doesn't know what he's getting himself into.
Finally, the clerk hands over my envelope and receipt. "All set. Sorry for the wait," he says, but his dark expression makes me shudder.
I pocket the receipt and head toward barn twelve, but the feeling of being watched prickles along my neck. It's not Misha's protective surveillance—this feels different.
Two men lean against the fence near the manure pit. Both seem unfamiliar. One wears a black jacket despite the warm afternoon. The other has his hands buried deep in his pockets. They're positioned to see anyone entering or leaving the barn complex, and when I change direction slightly to test my suspicion, their heads turn to track my movement.
My heart hammers as I reach barn twelve and complete the second transaction. The trainer hands over the envelope without conversation, but his eyes keep darting toward the door. Everyone can feel the tension today. I get the sense they realize we're being watched too, that they, too, have some sort of weakness Sonya may be exploiting. And I wonder how far her reach really goes.
When I emerge from the barn, the two men have moved. Now they're flanking the path that leads back to the main complex, cutting off my usual route. The one in the black jacket checks his phone, and the other responds with a subtle nod.
I take a deep breath and walk directly toward them, hoping confidence will carry me through whatever this is. But as I get closer, Black Jacket steps into my path.
"Excuse me," I say, trying to step around him.
"Vera Kovalenko?" His accent is thick and unfamiliar.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"We need to talk."
The second man moves closer, positioning himself behind me. I'm trapped between them now, the barn wall on one side and open ground on the other. No cover, nowhere to run. My pulse thrums beneath my skin as adrenaline rushes into my veins.
"I don't have time to talk. I need to get back to work."
"This won't take long." Black jacket reaches for my bag. "Hand it over."
"No," I snap, pulling away. "I don't know who you are, but you need to leave me alone."
His companion lifts the edge of his jacket, revealing the grip of a pistol tucked into his waistband. "She said no trouble, but you're making trouble." His gaze flicks around the area and inwardly, I feel my body coiling to run.
The sight of the weapon makes my legs weak, but anger flares alongside the fear. I'm tired of being pushed around and taking orders from people who treat me as disposable.
"I'm done with this," I tell them, clutching the bag tighter. "Whatever arrangement you think I have, it's over. Find someone else."
Black Jacket's expression hardens. "That's not how this works."
"Then maybe it's time someone explained how it does work." This time, the voice comes from behind the hay stack, and Misha steps into view with a pistol already drawn, the barrel pointed directly at Black Jacket's chest.
"Step away from her," Misha orders.
Both men freeze, assessing the new threat. Black Jacket's hand hovers near his own weapon, but he's already at a disadvantage with Misha's gun trained on him.
"This doesn't concern you," the second man says.
