Chapter 12 Misha
MISHA
Moscow spreads before us in all its contradictions—ancient cathedrals next to glass towers, history bleeding into ambition at every street corner.
Vera walks beside me through Red Square, her neck craned back to take in the impossible geometry of Saint Basil's Cathedral.
The afternoon light catches the gold in her hair, and I find myself watching her instead of the tourists snapping photos around us.
"I've never been here," she says, wonder clear in her voice. "I mean, I've lived in Moscow for years, but I've never actually come to see it."
"Work doesn't leave much time for sightseeing."
"No, it doesn't." She stops in front of the State Historical Museum, studying the red brick facade. "You must think I'm foolish, living so close to all this and never taking the time to appreciate it."
"I think you're practical. Tourism doesn't pay medical bills."
She nods, her expression growing distant. "Especially not when your brother has cancer and the treatments cost more than your father makes in six months."
The admission comes out quietly, matter-of-fact, as if she's simply stating the weather. But I can hear the weight behind it, the exhaustion of carrying a burden too heavy for one person.
"That's why you work so much."
"That's why I do a lot of things." She turns away from the museum, and I see her straightening her shoulders, pushing the vulnerability back down where it can't hurt her. "But today isn't about that. Today is about Red Square and lunch with a view."
I could push now, use her moment of openness to dig deeper into what she knows about the betting operation. But there's something in her expression that makes me hold back. She looks tired, worn thin by responsibilities that should be shared but aren't.
"Come on," I say instead. "Let's get lunch."
I lead her to a restaurant overlooking the Kremlin walls, a place where the tables are spaced far enough apart for private conversation and the waitstaff knows not to linger. Vera settles into her chair and stares out the window at the fortress that has dominated Russian politics for centuries.
"It's beautiful," she says. "Intimidating, but beautiful."
"Power usually is."
"Is that what attracts you to it?"
The question catches me off guard. "What makes you think I'm attracted to power?"
"The way you move through the world. The way people defer to you at the track. The way you carry yourself." She turns from the window to look at me directly. "You're used to being in control."
"Control is survival."
"For some people. Others survive by adapting."
"Is that what you do? Adapt?"
"I try to."
There's something in her tone that suggests adaptation hasn't been easy for her.
I file that observation away with all the others I've been collecting about Vera Kovalenko—the way she flinches when people raise their voices, the careful way she counts money before spending it, the protective instinct that flares whenever her family is mentioned.
The waiter brings wine and takes our order. Vera chooses the least expensive items on the menu despite my insistence that cost isn't a concern. Old habits die hard.
I shift the conversation to the history of the buildings around us, the politics that shaped this part of the city, the stories that accumulate in places where power has lived for centuries.
She relaxes as we talk, her shoulders losing their defensive set. By the time our food arrives, she's laughing at my dry observations about Russian bureaucracy and asking questions about the oligarchs who built empires from the chaos of the nineties.
"You sound like you know them personally," she says over her salmon.
"Some of them."
"Are they as ruthless as people say?"
"More so. The ones who survived the transition were the ones willing to do whatever it took to win."
"And you? Are you willing to do whatever it takes?"
Another direct question, another moment where she's trying to understand who I really am beneath the expensive clothes and careful manners. I meet her gaze and hold it.
"When it comes to protecting what's mine, yes."
"What's yours?"
"Family. Business. People I care about."
"In that order?"
"Not necessarily," I say carefully and wonder if I've underestimated her. She's intelligent and resourceful.
She nods as if that answer satisfies her, then returns her attention to her plate. But I catch her glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking, studying my face the way someone might study a puzzle they're trying to solve.
After lunch, we walk through GUM, the massive shopping complex that stretches along Red Square's eastern edge. Vera moves through the luxury stores, touching fabrics but checking price tags, admiring jewelry from a respectful distance.
"Pick something," I tell her as we pass a boutique filled with silk scarves and leather handbags.
"I don't need anything," she says, shaking her head, but I've seen the desire in her eyes for these nice things.
"That's not what I asked."
She stops in front of a display case filled with watches, her eyes drawn to a simple piece with a mother-of-pearl face. It's elegant without being ostentatious, something she might actually wear.
"That one," she says quietly.
I signal the sales associate, who produces the watch immediately. The price is insignificant by my standards, but I see Vera's eyes widen when she catches sight of the tag.
"Misha, I can't—"
"Yes, you can."
I pay for the watch and fasten it around her wrist myself, my fingers brushing the soft skin at her pulse point.
She shivers at the contact, and I feel an answering response in my chest. What is it about her that makes my body feel this way?
She is nothing more than a mark, a woman who presents an in road to my opposition, and nothing more.
But I like her. I like the way she makes my body feel things.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"You're welcome," I tell her, curling a hair around her ear as she admires me. This weekend with her was the best idea I've had in a long time.
My phone rings as we leave the store, and I see Nikolai's number on the display. The timing couldn't be worse, but I can't ignore a call from the fixer.
"I need to take this," I tell Vera. "Business."
She nods and drifts toward a nearby shop window while I step into an alcove between stores.
"Vetrov."
"Status report," Nikolai says without preamble.
"Under control."
"That's not specific enough. Do you have answers about the race fixing?"
I watch Vera through the shop window, studying a display of books. I love the childlike wonder in her eyes. "I'm working on it."
"Work faster. There was another suspicious payout yesterday. Third race, a horse called Desert Wind. Forty-to-one odds, massive win. The jockey's name is Pavel Gurevich."
The same jockey Vera defended at the stables. The coincidence feels too convenient to be random.
"I'll handle it."
"You'd better. Because if you don't, I will. And my methods are less gentle than yours."
The threat is clear. Nikolai doesn't care about collateral damage, doesn't care if Vera gets caught in the crossfire. If I don't get answers soon, he'll extract them his way, and she won't survive the process.
"Understood."
"Now, Misha. Or I take over."
The line goes dead. I slide the phone back into my jacket and return to Vera, who's moved on to examining a display of Russian literature.
Time for being delicate about this is likely over, but I have to try.
If Vera is who they think she is, then I can still use her, draw Sonya out.
If not, then maybe the claim I've staked isn't for no reason.
"Dostoevsky," she says when she sees me approaching. "I've always meant to read more of him."
"Heavy material."
"I like heavy material. Light things don't usually last."
Another glimpse into her character, another piece of information to file away. Vera Kovalenko isn't interested in superficial pleasures. She wants substance, depth, things that can withstand pressure.
"Everything alright?" she asks, studying my face. "You look tense."
"Just work. Nothing that can't wait."
I force my expression back to neutral, hiding the edge that Nikolai's call has left behind. Vera doesn't need to know that her time is running out, that the investigation is closing in on her whether she's guilty or innocent.
I coax her away from the store, then away from another and encourage her to join me back in the hotel.
The ride back passes in intimate conversation, Vera turning her new watch over in her hands and gazing out at the Moscow streets.
By the time we reach the suite, the sun has set and the city has transformed into a constellation of lights.
I pour wine while Vera admires the view from the windows.
The city spreads below us, all golden lights and shadow.
When I hand her the glass, she settles onto the sofa with a contentment I rarely see from her.
She's so relaxed around me. It almost makes me feel bad that I've chosen the long road with her. Almost.
"This is all very generous," she says. "I'm not used to being treated this way."
I sit beside her, close enough to breathe her in. "You deserve to be spoiled."
The wine brings color to her cheeks. I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her skin. She doesn't pull away.
"You're beautiful, Vera."
Her breath catches. "Misha—"
"Let me have you again… Your body, your lips… I'm craving you." My hand slides around the back of her neck, fingers curling into her hair, and she lifts the corner of her lip in a smile.
"Batya says you're lavishing gifts on me so I'll give you sex…" Her eyelashes bat at me, and I smirk.
"Batya is a smart man… But I give you my word, as a man of my honor, I'm not spoiling you for your body…
" I need to know what you know, I think in my head, but I don't say it aloud.
Instead, I continue truthfully. "I admire you, Vera.
You're brilliant, and strong, and incredibly beautiful, so intoxicating, in fact, that I'm addicted.
" My lips brush over hers and she smiles against them.
"You admire me?" she whispers, and her head arches back. I slip my fingers into her hair and pull slightly.
"More than you know…" The truth of the statement would bury me if Nikolai or Vadim found out, but it's true, nonetheless.
"Then admire my body the way you did before, and perhaps I'll let you have my soul…"