Page 77 of Stolen Empire
But rehearsal is different from execution.
Rehearsal doesn’t have an audience.
I spot three men near the far rail pretending to watch the horses.
One leans against the fence, his phone in hand.
Another smokes a cigarette, his eyes scanning the paddock.
The third stands with his arms crossed, his gaze locked on me.
One of them was at the poker game, and I don't recognize the other two, but given what I know about the Radich crew, I believe those men are the target audience.
"Stop," I bark, grabbing her arm to spin her around.
I make my face a mask of pure rage.
Katya stops, turning to face me.
Her expression is defiant, but I can see the fear underneath.
She's practiced to make this absolutely convincing, and I could fuck her right here, the way she turns me on.
I reach into my jacket, pull out a thick roll of rubles, and throw it at her feet.
The bills scatter across the dirt.
"Take it," I say, my voice loud enough to carry.
"Take your money and get the hell off my property."
She stares down at the cash, then back at me.
"You are firing me?"
"You stole from me."
I step closer, looming over her.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice? Did you think I'd let it slide?"
"I didn't steal anything," she snaps, her voice rising.
"You're a liar and a thief. That's all you've ever been."
I gesture toward the gate.
"Pick up the money and leave. Now."
She bends down, gathering the bills with shaking hands.
Her face is flushed, her eyes bright with anger.
Real anger, not performed.
I can see it in the way her jaw clenches, the way her fingers curl around the rubles.
Katya should've been an actress with the way she can tap into her real emotion on command.
