Page 7 of Sin Wager
But I've survived this long by treating every potential weakness as a tactical advantage. Vera Kovalenko represents both the key to my current problem and the most dangerous trap I've encountered in years. The smart play would be to handle this through intermediaries, to maintain distance while extracting the information I need. Instead, I'm sitting in a bar holding a single red rose and pretending my pulse hasn't quickened at the sight of her approaching my table.
She moves through the room with unconscious grace, her nervousness making her more appealing rather than less.Eight minutes late, which suggests she cares enough about this meeting to change clothes and apply makeup but lacks the confidence to arrive punctually. Perfect. Uncertainty makes people more malleable, more grateful for guidance from someone who appears to know what he wants.
"I was beginning to worry you'd changed your mind," I say as she reaches the table, rising to pull out her chair. The gesture is calculated to establish my intentions as romantic rather than predatory, though the distinction may prove academic.
"I'm sorry I'm late…" She waits for me, and I smile.
"Misha," I offer, nodding at the table I've chosen.
"Misha…" Her smile is breathtaking. "My brother needed attention before I could leave."
Family first. The response confirms what my surveillance has already revealed—her devotion to Elvin supersedes every other consideration in her life. She's built her entire existence around his survival, creating a vulnerability so profound that exploiting it feels almost unsporting.
"Family comes first. I respect that," I say, and I mean it. Family loyalty is a virtue I understand even as I prepare to weaponize it against her.
She settles into her chair and picks up the rose, inhaling its scent with a smile. The wine I selected—a Georgian red with enough complexity to flatter her palate without overwhelming her senses—sits untouched while she settles in.
"You look beautiful," I tell her, holding her gaze until color rises in her cheeks. The compliment is true, which makes it more effective than empty flattery. "I've been looking forward to this all day."
The conversation flows easily once she relaxes, her initial nervousness dissolving as she realizes I'm genuinely interested in her thoughts and experiences. I ask about her work with the horses, her life in Moscow, her family's transition from Ukraine.Each question is carefully chosen to extract information while appearing to build intimacy.
"Elvin is seventeen," she says when I inquire about her brother. "He was diagnosed with leukemia eight months ago. The treatments are expensive, but they're working. The doctors say his numbers are improving."
Eight months. The timeline aligns perfectly with when her betting patterns began. She started working for the Radich crew shortly after her brother's diagnosis, desperation making her vulnerable to recruitment by people who specialize in exploiting family crises.
"That must be terrifying for your family. Cancer treatments are bankrupting even for people with good insurance."
"We're managing. I've been picking up extra work, helping people at the track with various tasks. It pays better than stable work alone."
The explanation she's rehearsed for curious relatives and suspicious fathers. Vague enough to avoid scrutiny, plausible enough to satisfy casual inquiry. She's learned to lie convincingly, but the skill sits uneasily on her conscience. I can see the discomfort in the way her shoulders tense when she discusses her supposed side income.
"You're fortunate to find opportunities that pay so well. Not everyone has access to wealthy horse owners who need assistance."
Her eyes flicker at the implication, but she maintains her composure. "I've been lucky. The right people noticed my work ethic."
Lucky. An interesting choice of words from someone whose luck runs exclusively in directions that benefit her handlers. But she believes in her own agency, her ability to make choices that serve her family's interests. The illusion of control makes peopleeasier to manipulate because they feel responsible for outcomes that were never truly in their hands.
She's pliable too, and agreeable, easily distracted by a shift of conversation or a compliment. It seems too easy, and we share a few drinks over small talk as I help her relax and warm to me.
"Would you like to dance?" I ask as the bar's small combo shifts into a slower tempo. The suggestion comes at the perfect moment—she's had enough wine to lower her inhibitions but not enough to impair her judgment.
"I'm not much of a dancer."
"Neither am I. But the music is good, and I'd enjoy holding you."
The directness of the statement makes her pulse visible at her throat, a flutter of excitement that confirms her interest runs deeper than mere politeness. "Alright," she says and accepts my extended hand, allowing me to guide her toward the small dance floor where two other couples move in lazy circles.
I draw her into position with care, my right hand settling at the small of her back while my left captures her fingers. The contact is electric—not just for her, but for me as well, which presents its own set of complications. I've spent years perfecting emotional distance, treating human connections as tools rather than experiences. But Vera's proximity threatens to dissolve boundaries I've maintained through deliberate effort.
She follows my lead with hesitant grace, her inexperience evident in the way she anticipates moves before I initiate them. Younger men would interpret her nervousness as rejection and respond with clumsy reassurance. I use it as intelligence, reading her responses to gauge the depth of her interest and the speed at which I can escalate intimacy without triggering flight responses.
"Relax," I murmur against her ear, my breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Let me guide you."
The instruction applies to more than dancing. She's spent months operating independently, making decisions under pressure, carrying burdens that would crush most people her age. The opportunity to surrender control to someone who appears capable of handling it represents a luxury she's forgotten existed.
Her body softens against mine as she stops trying to predict my movements and allows herself to respond to them instead. The shift is subtle but profound, marking the transition from conscious participation to unconscious trust. I draw her closer, close enough to feel her heartbeat against my chest, close enough to catalog every shift in her breathing.
The age difference works in my favor. At forty-two, I possess patience and confidence that younger men lack. I've learned to read women's responses like a chess master calculating endgames, understanding that seduction is about timing and pressure rather than force or desperation.
