Sin Wager (The Vetrov Chronicles #4)

Chapter 1 Vera

VERA

The cold bites through my gloves as I shovel manure from the third stall, my breath forming white clouds in the dawn air.

The horses shift restlessly in their stalls, sensing the tension that runs through Podsolnukh Racetrack even at this early hour.

I've been mucking stalls since four thirty, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of the work, the scrape of the shovel against concrete drowning out the fears that circle my mind through every sleepless night.

Koschei snorts from his stall, pawing at the fresh bedding I spread an hour ago.

The bay gelding has always been particular about his environment, demanding perfection in a way that reminds me of the people who now control my life.

I've worked with him since he arrived at Podsolnukh two years ago, learning his moods and quirks, earning his trust through patient consistency.

Trust—such a fragile thing in this world where loyalty can be bought and sold with the day's racing forms.

The stable door creaks open, letting in a gust of bitter wind that cuts through my wool jacket. Two jockeys walk past my stall, their voices carrying in hushed tones that make my shoulders tense. In this place, whispered conversations often carry information that can destroy lives.

"New bookie came in last week," the taller one says, pulling his coat tighter against the morning chill. "A Vetrov. Word is he's hunting for patterns in the payouts."

My shovel stops mid-scrape. The manure falls back into the wheelbarrow with a wet thud that seems to echo through my chest. The name means nothing to me, but the implications crawl up my spine with icy fingers.

"Vetrov?" The second jockey spits into the straw. "Heard he cleaned house in Moscow before they sent him here. Anyone skimming or running games is finished. They found the last bookie face-down in the Moskva River."

"This one's different. Rolan Vetrov's uncle. Family blood runs deep in that crew. He's not here to make friends. He's here to stop the bleeding."

They move past, their footsteps fading toward the tack room, but their words carve themselves into my skull.

A new bookie. Family blood. Hunting for patterns.

My betting record stretches back six months, each wager placed exactly as instructed, each win adding to a total that would raise questions from anyone looking close enough. It makes my pulse quicken.

The wheelbarrow feels heavier as I push it toward the next stall. My hands shake slightly—whether from cold or fear, I can't tell. The horses need their stalls clean. The work needs finishing. These are the small certainties I can control while everything else threatens to collapse around me.

I've been at Podsolnukh for three years now, taking stable jobs wherever I could since my family immigrated from Ukraine when I was seventeen.

The work is honest—cleaning stalls, feeding horses, maintaining equipment that keeps these magnificent animals healthy and competitive.

It pays enough to cover rent on the tiny apartment I share with my father and brother, enough for groceries and utilities and the small luxuries that make poverty bearable.

But honest work doesn't pay for experimental cancer treatments. It doesn't cover the medications that keep my younger brother alive, doesn't fund the procedures that insurance companies dismiss as too costly, too risky, too uncertain. Honest work would have buried Elvin six months ago.

"Vera."

The voice cuts through the stable's morning calm and I turn to see Sonya Radich standing in the doorway.

Her black coat is immaculate despite the mud and straw covering the stable floor.

She looks out of place, comically so. And the way she carries herself—poised, alert, dangerous—tells me she doesn't know what it's like to scrape by and beg for scraps.

Sonya represents everything I will never be—polished, confident. She deals in subtleties, in implications, in the sort of power that ruins lives with a phone call or a disappointed expression. And I've learned it the hard way.

The first time we met, she offered me a solution to problems I hadn't even voiced aloud. The second time, she made it clear that solutions come with prices that compound over time.

She extends a folded piece of paper toward me, her manicured fingers looking more like talons on a bird of prey. "Today's selections."

I set the shovel against the stall door and take the paper, feeling its familiar texture between my fingers.

The instructions will be written in Sonya's neat handwriting—race numbers, horse names, amounts to wager, account numbers for deposit and withdrawal.

Each bet is calculated to extract maximum profit while appearing random enough to avoid suspicion. Or so I thought until five minutes ago.

"The amounts have increased," Sonya continues, watching my face for any flicker of resistance. Her eyes are dark, calculating. She evaluates me like this every time we meet, looks for weakness or hints that I may rebel. "Elvin's treatments are progressing well, I trust?"

My brother's name in her mouth makes my jaw clench.

The casual way she wields it, turning his illness into leverage, his recovery into a chain that binds me to her instructions.

Elvin doesn't know where the money comes from.

He thinks our father's construction work has been more lucrative lately, that insurance finally approved coverage for his therapy.

The lie sits heavily in my chest, but it's kinder than the truth.

"The treatments are helping," I say, folding the paper and slipping it into my jacket pocket. The weight of it feels disproportionate to its size. I'm only beginning to understand why.

"Good." Sonya's smile never reaches her eyes, remaining fixed and cold as a winter morning. "Consistency brings rewards, Vera. Remember that."

The threat lurks beneath her polite words which I know can just as easily be whispered into someone else's ear if she chooses. Consistency brings rewards, but inconsistency brings consequences that extend beyond my own fate. She turns to leave, then pauses at the door.

"There may be additional scrutiny in the coming weeks," she says without turning around. "New management often brings new policies. I trust you'll handle any questions with your usual discretion."

She leaves as quietly as she arrived, her footsteps swallowed by the sounds of horses shifting and birds waking outside the barn.

I return to the stall, finishing the mucking while my mind churns through possibilities.

A new bookie means new scrutiny. New scrutiny means questions I can't answer without destroying my ability to provide for Elvin.

The horses demand attention, and they don't ask questions about the source of their oats or wonder why their stable hand sometimes flinches at unexpected sounds. They exist in the present moment, trusting that their needs will be met, that their world will remain predictable and safe.

I envy them that simplicity.

An hour later, I lead Koschei toward the paddock for his morning exercise.

The bay gelding moves with restless energy, his muscles coiled beneath his winter coat.

His breath forms white clouds as we walk, his hooves creating a steady rhythm against the packed earth of the walkway.

The familiar weight of the lead rope in my hand provides a small anchor of normalcy in a morning that feels increasingly unstable.

The paddock buzzes with morning activity.

Trainers bark instructions to exercise riders with sharp voices.

Stable hands lead horses in careful circles, checking for signs of lameness or distress.

Veterinarians move between horses, their practiced eyes assessing condition and fitness.

The familiar chaos of racetrack preparation unfolds around me, but today it feels charged with an undercurrent I can't name.

Everyone seems more alert, more watchful. Conversations end abruptly when strangers approach. People glance over their shoulders more frequently, as if expecting unwelcome attention. The change is subtle but unmistakable—the ecosystem of the track adapting to a new predator in its midst.

I stop at the betting window after settling Koschei in the paddock, my hand finding the folded paper in my pocket.

The clerk behind the glass looks up expectantly, his face showing the bored patience of someone who has processed thousands of similar transactions.

He doesn't know me by name, but he recognizes the routine—single woman, moderate bets, consistent losses that suggest recreational gambling rather than professional involvement.

"Race three," I say, my voice steady despite the drumming of my heart. "Fifteen hundred on Midnight's Glory to win."

The amount is larger than my usual bets, but not dramatically so. Sonya has been careful to increase the stakes gradually, avoiding sudden jumps that might attract attention. The clerk marks the ticket and slides it across the counter without comment, and I fold it into my wallet.

"Race seven," I continue. "Two thousand on Devil's Bargain to place."

This time the clerk pauses, his pen hovering over the form.

Two thousand represents more than I make in a month of stable work, but my face reveals nothing of the anxiety clawing at my chest. I've learned to project calm confidence, to appear as someone making informed choices rather than following instructions I barely understand.

The ticket joins the first in my wallet. Two bets placed, two more to go before noon.

Movement catches my peripheral vision. A man leans against the far wall of the betting area, his attention focused in my direction.

Tall, lean build, wearing a dark coat that has seen better days.

His face remains partially shadowed by the brim of a wool cap, but his posture suggests he's used to watching people.

There's a stillness to him—a hunter watching his prey. It makes goosebumps rise on my arms.

I force myself to turn away, to focus on walking back toward the paddock where Koschei waits for his exercise session.

My steps remain even, unhurried, giving no indication that my nerves have pulled as taut as piano wire.

The man might be security. He might be one of Vetrov's people, already cataloging faces and patterns.

He might be nothing more than a regular patron studying the odds and wondering why a stable hand is placing bets that exceed her apparent means.

But in my world, assuming the best case has become a luxury I can't afford.

The morning exercises continue around me as I work with Koschei, leading him through his warm-up routine while my mind races ahead to the remaining bets, to the questions that might come, to the careful balance I must maintain between survival and discovery.

The gelding responds to my guidance with his usual intelligence, but I catch him glancing toward the betting area where the watching man still maintains his vigil.

Animals sense danger before humans do. They read body language and environmental changes with instincts honed by millions of years of evolution. If Koschei notices the watcher, then the threat is real enough to register on the most primitive levels of awareness.

"Easy, boy," I murmur, running my hand along his neck. The contact calms us both, horse and human finding comfort in the simple exchange of trust and reassurance.

The remaining morning passes like any normal morning.

I place the final two bets during my lunch break, varying the times and approach routes, choosing different windows to avoid establishing obvious patterns.

The watching man disappears sometime after eleven, but his absence feels more ominous than reassuring.

Predators don't abandon their territory.

They simply change their hunting strategies.

The stable door closes behind me with a sound that feels too much like a trap snapping shut.

I remove Koschei's lead rope and hang it on its hook, my hands moving through familiar motions while my mind races through scenarios and possibilities.

The paper in my pocket represents more than today's instructions—it's evidence of a pattern that a skilled investigator could trace back through months of carefully concealed activity.

Three races completed, three more scheduled for tomorrow. Three more chances for the new bookie to notice patterns that could unravel everything. Three more steps deeper into a game I never wanted to play but can't afford to lose.