Page 6 of Sin Wager
My brother reads faces the way other people read books, finding meaning in expressions and micro-movements that reveal hidden thoughts. The skill developed during his illness, when reading the faces of doctors and family members became crucial to understanding his own prognosis.
"I have plans tonight. Meeting someone for drinks."
His face brightens with the first genuine smile I've seen in weeks. "Someone special?"
"Potentially." I can't hide my own grin. The stranger—whose name I never caught—was mesmerizing. "He seems… different. Interested in horses, knowledgeable about the business. We had a good conversation yesterday."
"You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are, Vera. You've given up everything for Batya and me. It's time you had something for yourself."
The guilt twists in my chest as I realize how my criminal activities have become, in his eyes, evidence of my sacrifice and dedication to family. He believes I work long hours and live simply to pay for his treatments. He sees nobility where corruption festers, heroism where collaboration with criminals slowly destroys my soul.
"I'm not giving up anything I can't spare."
"You're twenty-five years old and you've never had a serious relationship because you spend every free moment working or worrying about me. That's not sustainable, Sister. I won't recover fast enough to make your loneliness worthwhile."
"You are recovering. The doctors confirmed it yesterday. The new treatment is working exactly as they hoped."
"And when I'm healthy, what then? Will you finally allow yourself to be happy? Or will you find new reasons to deny yourself the life you should be living?"
The question challenges assumptions I've made about duty and sacrifice. Elvin sees clearly what I've hidden from myself—that my devotion to his survival has become a prison that confines me to an existence measured entirely by his needs.
"I should get ready," I say, standing before the conversation can probe deeper into territory I'm not prepared to explore. "He's meeting me at seven thirty."
"What's his name?"
The question stops me at the bedroom door. I realize I know almost nothing about the man I'm meeting beyond his apparent interest in horses and his ability to make me feel valued during a brief conversation. The recognition should concern me more than it does.
"Not sure yet. He owns horses that race at Podsolnukh."
"Rich, then. Be careful, Vera. Wealthy men sometimes expect returns on their investments in women."
The warning carries uncomfortable resonance given my actual relationship with money and the people who provide it. But this man feels different from Sonya and her cold calculations. He looked at me as if I mattered beyond my utility, as if my thoughts and opinions held value independent of their usefulness to his agenda.
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can. Just… remember that you deserve to be treated well. Don't settle for someone who sees you as a convenience rather than a partner."
I kiss his forehead, tasting the salt and medication that cling to his skin. The gesture feels too much like a benediction, a blessing from someone whose survival depends on mywillingness to compromise every principle our parents taught us.
The mirror in the bathroom reflects a woman I barely recognize. The stable work has kept me lean and strong, but months of stress have carved lines around my eyes that make me appear older than my twenty-five years. I apply makeup carefully, trying to disguise the exhaustion that comes from living multiple lives simultaneously.
The dress I choose is simple but flattering, dark blue fabric that complements my eyes while maintaining the understated elegance appropriate for casual drinks. I own few clothes suitable for anything beyond work, but this dress survived from before Elvin's diagnosis, from a time when I believed my life might eventually include normal experiences with normal men.
The walk to Medved takes fifteen minutes through streets that grow progressively cleaner as they approach the area where successful Russians spend money on entertainment. The bar occupies the ground floor of a building that caters to customers who measure expenses in hundreds rather than single rubles, a place Sonya might drink if she chose to socialize with people beneath her economic status.
I arrive eight minutes late, my nerves making punctuality impossible despite my best intentions. The anxiety feels different from the fear that accompanies my work with Sonya—cleaner, more hopeful, carrying the possibility of positive outcomes rather than guaranteed catastrophe.
When I walk in, he is waiting, seated at a booth by himself, a single rose lying on the table in front of him, and it takes my breath away when he smiles at me.
Everything else is suddenly secondary, and I smile back, hoping to God in heaven that this evening is somewhat of an escape. Lord knows I need it.
4
MISHA
Vera stands in the doorway scanning the room, and my breath catches despite every professional instinct I've honed over two decades in this business. The simple blue dress transforms her from stable hand into a woman worth destroying kingdoms for, and I feel the familiar weight of danger settling in my chest.
Beautiful women are weapons dressed in silk and perfume, capable of reducing intelligent men to stumbling fools who hand over secrets and power with the desperation of addicts chasing their next fix.
