Chapter 2 Misha
MISHA
The numbers tell a story that makes my teeth ache.
I lean back in the worn leather chair behind the desk that belonged to my predecessor—may his soul find peace in whatever hell awaits men who steal from family—and study the betting patterns spread across three computer screens.
Twenty-seven days of data, each transaction logged.
The same woman appears in the records with clockwork regularity.
Moderate stakes, strategic timing, wins that cluster around races where the odds shift unexpectedly in the final minutes before post time.
Not every bet, which would be obvious. Not random selections, which would be natural.
A pattern calculated to extract maximum profit while maintaining the appearance of recreational gambling by someone with more luck than sense.
Vera Kovalenko. Twenty-five years old according to the background check I commissioned through channels that don't keep official records.
Ukrainian immigrant, a stable hand, clean criminal record, no known associates in organized crime.
On paper, she represents exactly the kind of mark that rival crews love to cultivate—desperate enough to be useful, naive enough to be expendable.
The door opens and Vadim strolls in casually, pulling out the chair opposite mine. He's stopped by a few times since I took on this task, and he has more threats than instructions most of the time.
"The Kovalenko woman," he says, settling into the chair across from my desk. "Three weeks of surveillance. What do you see?"
I turn one of the monitors toward him, highlighting the transactions in yellow.
"She's not working alone. The betting amounts follow a progression that suggests external funding.
The horse selections require information she couldn't access through stable work alone, and I've had her followed.
She doesn't have money for this herself. "
"Radich?"
The Radich crew has been testing boundaries for months, probing for weaknesses in our operations…
parasites seeking fresh hosts. They specialize in turning innocents into unwitting accomplices, building networks of dependency that serve their interests while providing plausible deniability, and when those innocents become less useful, they dispatch them without mercy.
"The pattern fits their methodology," I confirm. "Use locals with legitimate access, provide them with funding and information, extract profits while maintaining distance from direct involvement. If the operation collapses, they lose an expendable asset rather than valued personnel."
Vadim nods, his fingers drumming against the armrest. "The losses total four hundred thousand rubles over six weeks. Unacceptable."
Four hundred thousand represents more than revenue—it represents credibility, territorial control, the perception of strength that keeps rival crews from testing boundaries and internal dissidents from questioning authority.
In our world, financial bleeding attracts predators with the certainty of wounded prey drawing sharks.
"I want the source," Vadim continues. "Not the woman—she's a tool, nothing more. I want the hands that guide her, the voices that whisper instructions, the minds that believe they can bleed us without consequence."
"Understood."
"Handle this carefully, Misha. The woman has family—a sick brother, an aging father. They make her predictable, but they also make her sympathetic. Clean solutions only. No collateral damage unless absolutely necessary. The authorities can't get involved."
The warning carries multiple layers of meaning.
Vadim values discretion over brutality, surgical precision over overwhelming force.
But beneath the civilized language lurks the unmistakable reality that failure to resolve this situation will result in consequences that extend far beyond my own fate.
"There's another consideration," Vadim adds, his voice dropping to a register reserved for family. "Rolan has assigned a fixer to monitor this situation. Nikolai Barinov. You know the name?"
Ice forms in my chest. Barinov built his reputation cleaning up problems that family members created through incompetence or disloyalty. His methods are brutal. He doesn't send warnings. If Barinov is watching, my margin for error has shrunk to nothing.
"I know him."
"Then you understand the importance of resolving this quickly and completely. Barinov doesn't distinguish between criminal negligence and criminal intent. In his view, failure to protect family interests represents betrayal regardless of motivation."
"How long do I have?"
"He arrives next week. I suggest you make substantial progress before then."
Vadim rises and narrows his eyes at me. "The woman trusts horses more than people. Use that. Make her believe you represent safety, sanctuary, protection from forces she doesn't understand. When she confesses, be the solution to her problems rather than their source."
I'm not pleased about the way I'll have to go about this—with so much discretion—but I'll do what has to be done. If I don't, it's my life on the line.
The door closes behind him, and I return my attention to the monitors, studying Vera Kovalenko's image from the track security cameras.
Medium height, lean build, work-roughened hands.
Dark blonde hair pulled back in a practical braid, green eyes that suggest intelligence and wariness in equal measure.
She lacks the polished beauty of women who trade on their appearance, but there's an authenticity to her that would appeal to men seeking substance over surface attraction.
The way she handles the horses reveals patience and competence, qualities that suggest she might respond to a man who appears to value similar traits.
The way it unfolds in my mind naturally…
Present myself as a horse owner, someone who shares her interests and understands her world.
Build rapport through shared knowledge and mutual respect.
Project the image of a man with resources but without arrogance, power but without cruelty.
Make her believe that confessing her situation to me represents salvation rather than destruction.
She needs money for her brother's medical treatments—information easily gleaned from public records and casual observation. She works long hours for modest pay—a reality that creates vulnerability and resentment. She operates alone in a world that rewards connections and punishes isolation.
I will become her connection, her resource, her pathway to a better life.
She will confess because she believes I can protect her.
She will betray her handlers because she believes I offer superior alternatives.
She will trust me because I will give her exactly what she needs to hear in exactly the way she needs to hear it.
The stable area bustles with late-day activity as I make my way there, ready to begin my first step.
Horses are returning from training sessions, equipment being cleaned and stored, the endless maintenance that keeps racetrack operations running smoothly.
I locate Vera Kovalenko by the sound of her voice—calm, patient, the tone of someone communicating with an animal that responds to consistency rather than volume.
She stands beside a bay gelding, running her hands along his legs. The horse accepts her touch without resistance, ears forward and relaxed, trust that develops through months of positive interaction.
"Beautiful animal," I say, approaching from an angle that allows her to see me coming. No sudden movements, no aggressive body language. "Koschei, isn't it?"
She looks up, her green eyes assessing me with wariness. She's learned to evaluate strangers quickly and accurately. "You know horses?"
"I own three in training here. Midnight's Glory, Devil's Bargain, and Storm's End. This is my first season at Podsolnukh."
The lie flows smoothly, supported by research into horses that actually race at this track. I've memorized their bloodlines, training records, recent performances, enough detail to support casual conversation without raising her suspicions.
"All strong bloodlines," she says, her posture relaxing slightly. "Devil's Bargain placed well last month."
"Second-place finish. Better than I expected for his first race here." I move closer, maintaining respectful distance while projecting genuine interest in the conversation. "Do you work with all the horses or specialize in certain ones?"
"Wherever I'm needed. Koschei and I have worked together longest, though. Several years now."
Her voice carries genuine affection when she mentions the horse, showing her warm attachment to them. I can tell she forms bonds slowly but deeply, invests herself in relationships that matter to her, values loyalty and consistency above flashier attractions. I'm a quick read too, just like her.
"He responds well to your handling. Not every horse accepts touch that readily." I extend my hand toward Koschei's neck, allowing him to investigate my scent before making contact. The gelding sniffs curiously, then permits the gentle stroke along his jaw. "You have a gift for this work."
The compliment brings color to her cheeks, a pleased reaction. "Most people only see the glamor of racing," she says, returning her attention to checking the horse's legs. "They don't think about the daily care that makes it possible."
"The foundation work is always invisible to casual observers. They see the two minutes of race time, not the months of preparation that make those two minutes possible."
She looks at me again, this time with interest rather than wariness. I'm offering her something rare in her experience—respect for her expertise, acknowledgment of her importance to the larger enterprise.
"You sound different from most owners I've met," she says.
"Different how?"