Chapter 10 Misha
MISHA
The confirmation comes through my phone at eleven thirty, and I read it twice before the implications sink in.
My tail sends three photos—Sonya Radich sliding an envelope across a table to a man with scars running down his jaw, another shot of her shaking hands with a second enforcer outside a parking garage, and a final image of cash changing hands in broad daylight.
The Radich bitch isn't even trying to hide anymore.
I lean back in my office chair and stare at the photos again. The woman pulling Vera's strings has been busy, and now I know exactly how busy. Two enforcers, regular meetings, cash flowing both directions. This isn't small-time manipulation anymore. This is war preparation.
My phone buzzes with a text from Gregor.
Gregor: 5:32 PM: Shuttle's down. Maintenance says alternator fried. Won't be running today.
Perfect. I arranged for that alternator to fail this morning, and now Vera will need a ride home. Another chance to get close, another opportunity to dig deeper into whatever web the Radich crew has spun around her. I slide the phone into my jacket and head for the door.
I pass Vadim's desk without stopping, ignoring his questioning look as I push through the main entrance. The afternoon sun beats down on the asphalt, and I can smell dust and horse sweat carried on the wind from the stables.
My phone rings as I reach my car. The caller ID shows a number I recognize but never want to see.
"Vetrov."
"We have a problem." Nikolai Barinov's voice cuts through the speaker. The fixer assigned to watch me sounds tired, which means he's been busy. That's never good news for anyone.
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind that gets people buried in unmarked graves if they don't fix it fast enough.
" He pauses, and I hear traffic in the background.
"There was a race yesterday. Third heat, horse named Lucky Strike.
Long odds, maybe twenty-to-one. Should have finished dead last based on every piece of data we have. "
I know where this is going, but I let him talk.
"Lucky Strike won by three lengths. Clean race, no obvious tampering, but the payout was massive. Someone made a fortune, and it wasn't random luck."
"The jockey?"
"A new kid, been riding for maybe six months. Here's the interesting part—he's claiming innocence. Says he rode to win and the horse just had a good day."
I unlock my car and slide into the driver's seat. "You believe him?"
"I believe the Radich family is playing a bigger game than we thought. This isn't about skimming betting profits anymore, Misha. They're rigging entire races. Your girl might be involved deeper than you know."
I don’t want to believe him, but I've learned in this business to never take any shred of evidence for granted.
Vera, mixed up in race fixing on top of everything else?
If that's true, then every conversation we've had, every moment of vulnerability she's shown me, could be part of an elaborate performance.
"How deep?" I ask.
"Deep enough that if you don't get answers from her today, I'm going to get them my way. And if I have to handle this personally, you won't be around to see the results."
The threat is loud and obvious. Nikolai doesn't make empty promises. If he decides I'm part of the problem instead of the solution, I'll disappear just as thoroughly as the last bookie who couldn't keep the books balanced.
"I'll handle it."
"You have twenty-four hours. Find out what she knows about race fixing. Find out who's pulling her strings. And find out why the Radich crew thinks they can bleed us dry without consequences."
The line goes dead.
I sit in my car for a moment, letting the anger build.
This job was supposed to be simple—clean up the betting operation, identify the leak, eliminate the problem.
Instead, I'm dealing with a full-scale infiltration, race fixing, and a woman who's either the most convincing actress I've ever met or genuinely caught in the middle of a war she doesn't understand.
The fury comes in waves. First, at the Radich crew for thinking they can muscle into Vetrov territory. Second, at the situation that keeps expanding beyond my control. And third, at myself for letting Vera get under my skin when I should be treating her as nothing more than a source of information.
But underneath the anger, there's another feeling I don't want to examine too closely.
Relief. More time with Vera means more opportunities to figure out what she knows.
It also means more opportunities to touch her, to watch her eyes light up when I walk into a room, to hear her laugh at my dry observations about the other track workers.
I start the engine and head toward the stables.
The building is quieter than usual when I walk inside.
Most of the day shift have finished their work, and only a few stragglers remain.
I spot Vera immediately—she's standing next to Koschei's stall, running a brush over his neck with slow, methodical strokes.
Her hair is pulled back in its usual braid, and there are dust streaks on her jeans.
She looks up when she hears my footsteps, and I see worry flash across her face before she manages a smile.
"Misha. I didn't expect to see you today."
"Checking on the horses." I move closer, stopping just outside the stall. "Koschei's had a good workout this morning. The track manager says he's ready for the weekend races."
She nods, but her attention is divided. I can see her glancing toward the stable entrance, probably waiting for the shuttle that isn't coming.
"Problem?"
"The shuttle broke down. Maintenance says they won't have it running until tomorrow.
" She sets down the brush and turns to face me fully.
"It means I have to walk home after dark again…
" Her voice lilts softly, and I know what she's playing at.
My invitation to repeat last night again tonight has settled over her.
It's a perfect setup. I let a few seconds pass, as if I'm considering options.
"I can give you a ride again…" I step closer, warming to the idea of tasting her again.
There's nothing in this arrangement that says I can't enjoy extracting the information, and I'm satisfied with myself for choosing this higher road instead of outright torture. It's more pleasurable for both of us.
Her face brightens immediately. "Really? I don't want to put you out."
"It's not a problem. You know I want to spend more time with you." I would drive to the other side of Moscow if it meant more time alone with her.
"Thank you. I just need to finish up here and grab my things."
I watch her move around the stall, checking water buckets and hay nets. Her attention to detail makes her good at this job. Every motion is controlled, purposeful. If she's acting, she's better at it than most professionals.
"Misha."
I turn toward the voice and see Pavel Gurevich walking in my direction. The jockey looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes, which flick nervously as he speaks to me. He's nervous, tense like he's hiding something.
"Pavel."
"Can we talk? About yesterday's race?"
I glance at Vera, who has stopped working and is listening to our conversation. Her face is neutral, but I catch a flicker of concern in her eyes.
"What about it?"
"People are saying I threw it. That I made Lucky Strike win on purpose." Pavel's voice is steady, but I can hear the undercurrent of fear. "It's not true. I rode to win, same as always."
"Lucky Strike wasn't favored."
"No, but he felt good under me. Strong. Responsive. Sometimes horses surprise you."
Vera has moved closer, still holding the brush. "Pavel's a good rider," she says quietly. "He wouldn't throw races."
Interesting. I file away her defense of him, along with the way she's looking at Pavel—protective, concerned. Either she genuinely cares about his reputation, or she's worried about what he might say under pressure.
"The stewards cleared the race," Pavel continues. "No evidence of tampering, no illegal substances. Clean win."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
He nods, but the fear doesn't leave his eyes. "Right. Nothing to worry about."
Pavel walks away, and I watch Vera's reaction. She follows him with her gaze until he disappears around the corner, then turns back to me with a forced smile. There is a flicker of fear in her expression, but I willfully ignore it. She needs to see me exude confidence and compassion.
"Ready to go?" I ask, extending my elbow, which she takes timidly.
The sun is lower in the sky as we stroll across the parking lot to my car. Vera settles into the passenger seat and buckles her seatbelt, then looks out the window at the track buildings.
"Long day?" I ask.
"They all are lately." She turns to face me as I pull out of the parking lot. "Thank you for the ride. And for dinner last night. It was…"
"What?"
"Nice. I can't remember the last time I went to dinner like that."
The admission makes my chest tighten. How long has she been taking care of everyone else without anyone taking care of her?
It rankles my better judgment. I care. For some reason, it bothers me that she takes care of her brother and father and they don't have enough time or energy to care for her in return.
I'm the man sent to extract information from her and discard her like a used bandage, and I spend more emotional effort to help her than the men in her life. It makes me shake my head in disbelief.
"You work too much."
"Bills don't pay themselves."
"Speaking of which." I reach into my jacket and pull out a credit card. "Take the weekend off."
She stares at the card but doesn't take it. "Misha, I can't—"
"You can. You should be taking time for yourself."
"I have to work. The weekend races are busy, and they need all the hands they can get."
"The track will survive without you for two days."
I hold the card out again, and this time, she takes it, turning it over in her hands.
Her name is embossed on the front—I had it made after our first night together when we had drinks.
It's supposed to be a means to an end, pouring out expensive things on her to woo her into submission, but I find myself thinking of what she might buy with it.
What smile might curl her lips as she admires the finer items of clothing she'll purchase and see with her own eyes a reflection that displays how stunning she is.
"This has my name on it."
"So you can use it without questions."
"I don't know what to say." She tries pushing it back into my hand, and I shake my head firmly.
"Say you'll take some time off this weekend. Go shopping. Buy yourself nice things."
She looks up at me, and I see something shift in her expression. Understanding, maybe. Or anticipation.
"What kind of nice things?"
I let my gaze drop to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "The kind I'd enjoy seeing you wear. Or not wear." I lift one eyebrow and glance at her.
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "That's very direct."
"I don't see the point in being subtle."
"No, I suppose you don't." Her body relaxes as she cups the card in her hand, drawing it back toward herself.
She slides the credit card into her pocket, and I take that as acceptance. Two days alone with her, away from the track and the pressure and the watching eyes of both our families. Two days to figure out exactly what she knows about Pavel Gurevich and race fixing and the Radich crew's larger plans.
"And plan to spend the weekend with me… Away from here."
"Misha," she begins, rejection coloring her tone, but I cut her off.
"I insist, Vera. Please don’t break my heart." The glance I give her makes her shoulders drop in defeat. She can't say no to me. It's exactly where I want her.
Two days to decide if she's genuinely innocent or if she's playing a game more dangerous than I realized.
I turn onto her street and pull up in front of her building. She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn't immediately get out.
"Misha?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are you being so generous with me?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because I don't have an answer, but because the real answer is more complicated than I want to admit.
"Maybe I enjoy your company."
"Maybe?"
"Definitely."
She smiles, and for a moment the weight of everything else—the pressure from Nikolai, the race fixing, the war brewing between the families—fades into background noise.
"I'll think about the weekend."
"Think fast. Time is a luxury we might not have much of."
She gives me a questioning look, but I don't elaborate. Instead, I watch her walk to her building's entrance, noting the way she moves, the way she checks over her shoulder before disappearing inside.
Vera Kovalenko is dangerously tempting. And I can't resist any more. I'm staking a claim whether Nikolai likes it or not, and it will be trickier than ever to finish this job, but I don't intend to cut her loose as easily as my bosses want me to.