Page 80 of Sin Wager
31
VERA
Isit in the leather chair across from Misha's desk with my hands folded in my lap to hide the trembling that hasn't completely stopped since we left the luxury box where Sonya died. The adrenaline continues to course through my system, making my heart race and my thoughts scatter like leaves in an autumn wind.
I'm going to need therapy after all of this violence.
Through the tall windows, I can see the organized chaos of cleanup operations. Men in dark clothing move across the grounds, coordinated by radio communications that crackle through the night air. Floodlights illuminate areas where evidence must be collected or disposed of, and police caution tape sections off areas where the authorities don’t want anyone.
Misha stands near the windows, his silhouette framed by the artificial daylight of the security lights. His shirt bears stains from our ordeal—river water, concrete dust, and darker patches that might be blood. The expensive fabric clings to his lean frame, outlining muscles that my fingers have traced a dozen times now.
"It's finished," he says quietly. "The Radich organization is broken. Sonya's dead, their key personnel are eliminated or captured, and their financial resources belong to us now."
The words bring relief, but they also carry implications that my mind struggles to process completely. This world of violence and retribution operates by rules I'm still learning, codes of conduct that seem alien to someone raised with conventional morality. Yet I'm part of this world now, bound to it by love and pregnancy and the choices I've made over these past months.
"What happens to the people your men captured?" I ask, though part of me dreads the answer.
"They'll be questioned about any remaining Radich operations, then disposed of according to their value as sources of intelligence." His tone seems surreal, discussing murder with the same casual inflection another man might use to describe his business transactions.
The clinical description makes me shudder as I recognize how completely my perspective has changed. Months ago, such casual discussion of killing would've horrified me. Now I understand the necessity, the cold logic that governs survival in a world where mercy is often indistinguishable from weakness.
"And us?" I ask, hugging my arms over my stomach. "What happens to us now?"
He turns from the window, and I see something in his eyes that I've never seen before. Not the calculating coldness that he wears like armor or the predatory awareness that makes him dangerous to his enemies. Something warmer, more human, vulnerable in ways that he's never allowed himself to be with anyone else.
"That depends on what you want," he says, moving toward me cautiously. "Your debt to the Radich family died with Sonya. You're free to walk away and return to your old life and forget this world exists."
Freedom from violence, from the constant awareness that death lurks behind every decision, from the moral compromises that come with loving a man who kills without hesitation. The offer doesn't even tempt me. The thought of leaving him, of walking away from what we have, creates a hollow ache in my chest that feels worse than fear.
"Is that what you want?" I counter. "For me to disappear and pretend none of this happened?"
"No." Misha is fighting to maintain control. I watch his jaw work to steady himself, and then he says, "What I want is dangerous for both of us. What I want could get you killed if my enemies decide you're a weakness they can exploit."
"What do you want, Misha?"
He reaches my chair and kneels beside it, bringing his eyes level with mine. His hands find my face, thumbs tracing the line of my cheekbones in a gesture so familiar to me now it's as warm as sunrise over the ocean on a cloudless day. The same hands that killed people tonight now touch me with reverent care, as if I'm made of precious crystal that might shatter under too much pressure.
"I want you to stay," he whispers. "I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night. I want to watch our child grow up strong and smart and safe under my protection. I want to build a life with you that exists beyond the violence and the business and the constant threat of death."
Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them, emotional overflow from weeks of accumulated stress and fear finally finding release. His words paint a picture of normalcy that seems impossibly beautiful after the chaos we've endured together. The simple domestic happiness that most people take for granted becomes an exotic dream when your world revolves around criminal enterprises and violent retribution.
"Can we have that?" I ask. "Can people like you actually build a normal life?"
"I don't know," he admits, "but I want to try. For you, for our child, for the future we could create together."
The office door opens without warning, interrupting our moment of intimacy with the harsh reality of ongoing operations. Nikolai Barinov enters. His face shows the exhaustion that comes from managing multiple crises simultaneously, but there's satisfaction in his expression as he surveys the scene.
"The cleanup is nearly complete," he reports to Misha. "All evidence has been secured or disposed of. Witnesses have been debriefed, and official reports are being filed according to our predetermined narrative."
Misha rises from his position beside my chair, transforming back into the cold professional who commands respect and fear in equal measure. The vulnerable man who spoke of building a life together disappears behind the mask he wears for the world, though I can see glimpses of him in the way his eyes keep returning to my face.
"Casualties?" Misha asks.
"Minimal among our people. Three wounded, none seriously. The medical team has already treated their injuries and established cover stories for any hospital visits that might be necessary."
The clinical discussion of violence and its aftermath continues around me, but my attention drifts to what Misha revealed. He wants a future together, to build something beyond the criminal empire that defines his current existence. But can a man like him ever truly escape the world that shaped him? Can I accept the compromises that come with loving someone whose hands will always carry the stain of blood?
"What about law enforcement response?" Misha continues his debriefing.
