Chapter 6 Misha
MISHA
The betting slips spread across my desk tell the same story they told yesterday, and the day before that. Vera's afternoon run netted forty-three thousand rubles in winnings, all clean payouts to legitimate punters. But the pattern underneath runs deeper than the surface numbers.
I trace my finger down the column entries. Every bet carries the Radich fingerprint—odd amounts, specific horses, perfect timing on long shots that shouldn't hit but do. The woman doesn't know she's carrying poison in those envelopes, but the poison flows through her hands all the same.
I pick up my phone and dial one of my men.
Vadim is right. We have to get to the bottom of who is behind all these bets that win without prejudice because if we don’t, they'll certainly bleed us dry.
And I'll have to answer for that. I need to spend more time with Vera quickly, get her to trust me, and pull those strings harder.
"Yeah?" Gregor picks up on the second ring and awaits my orders like a good soldier.
"The Kovalenko girl finished mucking stall twelve.
Send her to the feed room. Tell her inventory needs checking before she leaves.
" I won't get down to the stables before she skirts off for the evening, so keeping her busy is the next best thing.
It will be later, growing darker in the street, and she will welcome a ride from a perfect gentleman.
"Got it," he says with a grunt, and I hang up before he can question my motives.
I lean back in my chair and pull up the security feed on my monitor. The feed room camera gives me a clear view of the doorway and half the interior. Vera appears in the frame three minutes later, her braid swinging as she pushes through the heavy door.
She moves through the room checking clipboards, counting sacks, marking tallies on the inventory sheet.
When one of my men appears in the doorway and blocks her exit, her posture shifts.
She gestures toward the completed paperwork, then toward the door.
He shakes his head and points back at the feed sacks.
Her shoulders drop. She returns to the counting, but her movements carry frustration now. She wants to go home. Perfect.
I shut off the monitor and grab my keys, heading out to meet my lovely, oblivious Ms. Kovalenko to offer her a ride.
The walk from the office to the stables takes nine minutes.
By the time I reach the feed room, Vera has moved to the far wall where the vitamin supplements line the shelves. Her back faces the door.
I watch her work for a moment, noticing how her jeans hug her hips and cup her perfect, round ass. There are those feminine wiles my father warned me about years ago. One thought of what she'd look like without that clothing on makes me feel unhinged, but I control myself in favor of the long game.
"Working late tonight?" I ask softly, not intending to shock her but knowing I will.
She spins around, clipboard clutched against her chest. "Misha! You scared me."
"Didn't mean to. One of my men said you were handling inventory." I step into the room and let the door swing shut behind me. "Seems beyond your usual duties."
"He said it needed finishing before tomorrow's delivery." She holds up the clipboard. "Almost done, though."
"Good. I'll give you a ride home when you're ready." I lean against the wall, folding my hands together in front of myself like I have all the time in the world.
Her eyes widen. "You don't have to do that. I can just take the bus."
Kudos to her for being wise enough to use the bus instead of walking this time of night, but it won't do.
"Bus routes are unreliable this time of evening.
Besides, I was heading that direction anyway.
" Lies come easily when you are manipulating a target.
I have all the time in the world to do whatever is needed to see this through.
Find out who is behind this, which Radich scum I need to stop, and then put an end to it all. Hopefully without collateral damage.
"Are you sure? I don't want to impose."
"No imposition. Finish up here and meet me at the parking lot."
Twenty minutes later, she slides into the passenger seat, her work clothes still carrying the scents of hay and horses.
She buckles her seatbelt and smooths her braid over one shoulder.
She's very out of place in my vehicle, but the naivety of it all stirs something inside me.
How easily low-hanging fruit is plucked from a tree. Vera makes it simple.
"Thank you for this. Really. The bus takes forever, and I need to pick up groceries before the market closes."
I start the engine and pull out of the lot. "Which market do you prefer?"
"There's a small one near my building. Nothing fancy, but the prices work for my budget."
"What neighborhood are you in again?" I glance at her as I drive, careful to keep my eye on the road, though I don't mind looking at her. She's intoxicating.
"Altufyevo District. Not the nicest area, but it's what I can afford."
Altufyevo means immigrant families, tight finances, limited options.
All information I already know, of course.
"You live alone?" I ask, feigning ignorance.
Making her feel important and like I'm interested in her life is key to getting her to open up to me on her own.
This has to work a certain way. I can't have her getting skittish and running to that Radich bitch to throw up red flags.
"With my father. He works construction when he can find jobs." She adjusts the air vent and settles deeper into the seat. "What about you? Do you live near the track?"
"I have a place in the city center. Closer to family business."
"Must be convenient."
"It has advantages." I glance at her profile. "You mentioned your brother yesterday. Does he live nearby?"
Her expression tightens. "He's in the hospital a lot with his cancer treatments. But he does live with my father and me." She turns toward the window. "Elvin is strong, though. Stronger than I am sometimes."
"You seem plenty strong to me. Working at the stables isn't easy labor."
A small smile crosses her face. "I've always been good around horses. They don't judge you for being quiet or different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. I've never been the type to go to clubs or date around. I focus on family needs. I don't have good friends, and the ones I do have only want to go out and party."
"Your friends are idiots." The words are carefully constructed to get a rise out of her, and it works. She turns back toward me with surprise. "You're thoughtful. Responsible. Those are rare qualities in people your age."
"Thank you." Her cheeks flush pink. "That's very kind."
"I'm not being kind. I'm being honest. Most women I meet care more about appearances than substance. You're different."
She fidgets with the hem of her jacket. "I don't think I'm that special."
"Then you don't see yourself clearly." I slow for a red light and study her reaction. "When was the last time you went on a proper date?"
The pink deepens to red. "It's been a while.
Months, actually." I can see embarrassment tinge her cheeks.
Having drinks with me was hardly a real date.
This poor woman needs a social life, and she spends her waking hours working her fingers to the bones to care for her brother.
Such a pity too—she has beautiful fingers.
"Sometimes, I think I'm just not built for relationships. I'm better at taking care of horses than talking to men." Her explanation seems to cause her more nervousness. She squirms in the seat and wrings her hands.
"You're talking to me just fine."
She laughs, but it sounds nervous. "You're different. Easier to talk to than other men."
"What did you expect me to be like?" I chuckle warmly. It's one thing I've never been accused of—being easy to talk to. In fact, it's downright opposite of that.
"I thought you'd be more… I don't know. Intimidating, I guess."
"I can be intimidating when necessary. But not tonight."
The light turns green. I accelerate through the intersection and take the turn toward her neighborhood. The buildings grow older and more cramped as we drive deeper into Altufyevo.
"You can drop me at the corner if it's easier," she says as we approach her street.
"I'll take you to your door. It's getting dark."
"Thank you. That's very thoughtful."
I pull up in front of her building, a concrete block structure that's seen better decades. The windows facing the street show patches of mismatched curtains and the occasional flicker of television light.
She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn't immediately reach for the door handle. "I really appreciate the ride. And the conversation. It's been a long time since someone called me thoughtful instead of boring."
"Anyone who finds you boring lacks imagination."
Her smile transforms her face. The wariness disappears, replaced by genuine warmth. "You're very good at making a woman feel special."
"I'm only telling you what I see." I reach across the space between us and brush my thumb along her jawline where a strand of hair has escaped her braid. "You are special, Vera. More than you realize."
She goes very still under my touch. Her breathing changes, becomes shallow and quick. I let the contact linger longer than necessary before drawing my hand back.
"I should go inside," she whispers.
"Of course. But first, let me ask you something. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? Somewhere better than the local bar."
Her eyes widen again. "Dinner? Like… a date?"
"Exactly a date."
"I don't know if that's a good idea. You're so much older than me, and my father—"
"Age is just numbers on a calendar. What matters is connection, understanding, respect.
" I lean slightly closer. "You're mature beyond your years, intelligent, responsible.
Most men your age wouldn't recognize those qualities or appreciate them properly.
They'd waste your time with games and empty promises. "
"You think so?"
"I know so. You deserve someone who sees your value, who treats you the way you should be treated. Someone who understands that your loyalty and dedication aren't weaknesses to exploit, but strengths to cherish."
She bites her lower lip, considering. "Where would we go?"
"There's a restaurant in the city center I think you'd enjoy. Quiet, elegant. Good food and better conversation."
"That sounds expensive."
"Let me worry about the expense. You worry about saying yes."
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. Yes. I'd like that."
"Good. I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow evening. Wear something nice, but not too formal. You'll be perfect no matter what you choose."
She opens the car door and steps out, then leans down to look at me through the open window. "Thank you again for the ride. And for… everything else."
"Thank you for saying yes."
I watch her walk to her building's entrance, noting how she glances back twice before disappearing through the door. The second glance lasts longer than the first.
Tomorrow night, I'll begin extracting the information I need about her Radich connections. But tonight, I file away everything she told me about her family, her neighborhood, her vulnerabilities.
Knowledge is power. And power is what I need to survive.