Page 77 of Sin Wager
"Whatever happens up there," I say quietly, "I want you to know that I love you."
Misha's hand finds mine in the dim elevator lighting. "I love you too. Which is why I'm going to make sure Sonya never threatens our family again."
The elevator shudders to a stop, and the floor indicator shows we've reached the main level. Through the doors, I can hear the distant sound of sirens and the ongoing chaos of emergency response teams dealing with the aftermath of the shootout.
Misha leads me down the hallway toward the main floor, his gun drawn but held low to avoid attracting attention from any law enforcement personnel who might be in the area. We move with careful steps, checking each intersection and doorway for threats before exposing ourselves to potential crossfire.
The betting floor has transformed into a crime scene. Yellow tape blocks access to areas where shootouts occurred, and evidence markers identify bullet impacts and blood spatter patterns. Paramedics work on injured civilians while police officers take statements from witnesses who remained after the initial panic subsided.
Through the chaos, I spot Rolan near the main entrance, speaking with a man in an expensive suit. I’m guessing it's the fixer that Misha mentioned, the Vetrov family's internal investigator who was sent to determine the source of the betting losses.
"There." Misha points toward the premium level, where broken windows and damaged fixtures mark the locations where Sonya's shooters made their stand. "Box twelve."
We climb the stairs to the premium level, passing more police tape and evidence markers. The carpet shows dark stains where blood soaked through the expensive fibers, and bullet holes punctuate the walls at irregular intervals. The smell of cordite hangs in the air, lingering long after the violence that erupted in this supposedly civilized space.
Box twelve sits at the end of the corridor with its door standing slightly ajar. Light spills through the gap, and I can hear voices speaking in low tones. Sonya's voice, recognizable despite the stress that roughens her usually smooth delivery.
Misha signals for me to wait while he approaches the door. He moves in a fluid motion, his body positioned to present the smallest possible target while maintaining clear sight lines into the room beyond.
The door swings open at his touch, revealing a luxury box equipped with leather seating, a private bar, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the empty racetrack. Sonya Radich stands near the windows, her navy coat torn and stained with dust from her escape through the facility's upper levels.
She's not alone. Two men flank her position, both holding pistols trained on the doorway where Misha has appeared. Their faces show the tension of cornered animals, dangerous because they have nothing left to lose.
"Ms. Kovalenko." Sonya's voice carries across the room with false warmth. "How good of you to join us. Please, come in. We have so much to discuss."
Misha enters the box with his gun raised, tracking between the two armed men. I follow behind him, my heart pounding as I face the woman who has manipulated my life for months.
"Sonya." I step forward, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. "We need to talk."
Her smile is as cold as winter steel. "Yes, we do. You've caused me considerable inconvenience, dear. Time to settle accounts."
The confrontation I've been dreading is finally here. In this luxury box high above the racetrack, surrounded by the aftermath of violence and betrayal, I'll face the woman who used my desperation to fuel her criminal ambitions. The woman who turned my love for my brother into a weapon against the man I love.
And before this ends, only one of us will walk out of this room alive.
30
MISHA
The luxury box feels smaller with five people inside it, the air thick with tension. Sonya Radich stands near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The two men flanking her keep their pistols trained on me, but their eyes dart nervously between my position and Vera's, uncertain which target presents the greater threat.
The gunman on the left stands closer to Sonya, his weapon held with the loose grip of someone who learned to shoot on the streets rather than a military range. The one on the right maintains better discipline, his stance and weapon handling suggesting formal training or extensive combat experience.
"Vera," Sonya continues, a predator toying with cornered prey. "You've been quite busy, haven't you? Running around with this Vetrov dog, sharing secrets that don't belong to you."
Vera steps forward, and I admire the steadiness in her voice despite the fear I can see in her green eyes. "I never shared anything with anyone. You told me what to bet, when to bet, and I did exactly what you asked."
"Yes, you did." Sonya's smile grows colder. "For a while. But then you started asking questions. That curiosity of yours became a problem."
The woman moves away from the windows, circling closer to where Vera stands. The gunmen adjust their positions to maintain clear fields of fire, but their movement creates brief moments where their attention divides between multiple targets. Professional killers would maintain better coordination, but these men operate with the sloppy tactics of street thugs promoted beyond their competence.
"Tell me what you told him," Sonya demands. "I need to know how much information you've shared with your new boyfriend."
"I don't have to tell you anything." Vera's voice quavers slightly, the first crack in her composure.
Sonya backhands her across the face with a sharp crack of flesh against flesh. Vera stumbles backward, one hand raised to her reddening cheek while tears spring to her eyes from the impact.
"Don't lie to me!" Sonya's composure shatters, revealing the vicious temperament that lurks beneath her professional façade. "You think I don't know what you've been doing? Whispering in Misha Vetrov's ear about our operation, giving him details about our methods?"
