Chapter 14 Misha
MISHA
Tension crawls up my spine as I walk through the stable complex an hour before post time.
The major race draws bigger crowds, bigger bets, and bigger opportunities for tampering that's been bleeding my books dry.
I don't even know what I'm looking for today, but I know there has to be more to this than just Vera's betting.
There is no way even with the perfect odds cast that Sonya and her crew could win so many times so strategically. They have to be fixing races too.
I move past the stalls methodically, checking on Devil's Bargain and Storm's End, watching the handlers prepare the horses for what should be straightforward competition. Should be. But nothing's been straightforward since the Radich crew decided to turn my track into their personal money fountain.
Most of the stable workers have moved to the paddock area for the pre-race preparations, leaving the building quieter than usual. Perfect conditions for work that requires privacy.
I turn the corner toward the feed storage area and freeze.
Pavel Gurevich stands beside Lightning's Crown, the three-to-one favorite for today's feature race.
The jockey has his back to me, but I can see the syringe in his right hand, the way he's positioning himself near the horse's neck.
The needle catches the light for just a moment before he moves closer to the animal.
My hand moves to the knife at my belt automatically.
This is the smoking gun I've been waiting for, the proof that the race fixing goes deeper than simple betting manipulation.
Pavel isn't just doing his job like he claims. He's actively sabotaging horses to control race outcomes. It tells me that quiet conversation with Sonya that I witnessed wasn’t at all innocent.
And I wonder what that means about his whispered laughs with Vera.
I approach silently, my footsteps muffled by the straw scattered across the stable floor. Pavel is so focused on his work that he doesn't hear me coming. The syringe is nearly at Lightning's Crown's neck when I reach him.
"Pavel."
He spins around, eyes wide with panic, the syringe still clutched in his hand. "Misha. I didn't—this isn't—"
"What's in the syringe?"
"Nothing. I mean, it's just…" He stammers, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air in the stable. It's guilt—visible on his skin, in the clammy complexion of his face, in the way his hand shakes.
I don't give him time to finish the lie. My knife slides between his ribs before he can take another breath, angled upward to pierce his heart. He drops the syringe and grabs my wrist, but the damage is already done. His eyes go wide with shock, then empty.
"No…" he grunts, and I catch his body as it falls, lowering him carefully to the straw-covered ground.
The syringe rolls away, and I retrieve it, examining the clear liquid inside.
Probably a mild sedative—enough to slow Lightning's Crown down without killing the animal outright.
Or maybe a steroid meant to throw results and disqualify the beast from even racing later this evening.
The stable is still quiet, no sounds of approaching footsteps or concerned voices. I have maybe five minutes before someone comes looking for Pavel.
I position his body carefully, making it appear as though he tripped and fell against the metal feed bin near Lightning's Crown's stall.
A tragic accident—the kind of thing that happens when jockeys get too close to nervous horses in confined spaces.
I place the syringe in a feed bucket where it won't be immediately visible but will be discovered eventually, adding credibility to any investigation that follows.
Lightning's Crown stamps and snorts, agitated by the scent of blood, but the horse settles when I speak quietly and move away from the stall. No harm done to the animal, and the race can proceed as originally planned.
Then I slip out of the stable through the back entrance, putting distance between myself and Pavel's body before anyone discovers it. The paddock area is busy with pre-race activity, grooms and trainers focused on their horses, spectators beginning to gather for the feature event.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing near the betting windows when I hear the commotion from the stable. Raised voices, someone shouting for security, the unmistakable sound of an emergency in progress.
"What's happening?" I ask a nearby trainer, playing the part of concerned track management.
"Jockey's been hurt. Pavel Gurevich. They found him in the stables."
"How bad?"
"Bad enough. Ambulance is on the way, but…" The trainer shakes his head grimly.
Within an hour, the news spreads through the track community with the speed that bad news always travels.
Pavel Gurevich is dead, found in the stables with a knife in his chest and suspicion of tampering with the horses.
The discovery of a syringe containing an unknown substance near the body raises questions about what he was doing in that part of the stable complex.
By evening, rumors are flying. Some say Pavel was involved with organized crime, others claim he was being pressured to throw races. A few whispered conversations mention the Radich family by name, though nobody wants to speak too loudly about Russian organized crime connections.
I find Vera in the break room after her shift, sitting alone at one of the plastic tables with her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that's gone cold. Her face is pale, and I can see the tremor in her fingers when she reaches for the cup.
"You heard about Pavel," I say, settling into the chair across from her.
She nods without looking up. "They're saying he was mixed up with criminals. That he was fixing races."
"What do you think?"
"I think Pavel was a good rider who got in over his head." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I think there are people at this track who prey on anyone desperate enough to listen to them."
There's fear in her tone, likely because my warnings have finally hit their mark. Pavel's death casts light on his connection to Sonya, and that will be looked at. It's only a matter of time before the same light shines on Vera.
"Vera." I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. "Look at me."
She raises her eyes, and I see terror there—not just for Pavel, but for herself.
"I'm scared," she admits. "If Pavel was involved with the wrong people, and now he's dead…" She trails off, but I can fill in the rest of her thoughts easily enough.
"Come here."
She stands and moves around the table, and I pull her down onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her as she burrows into my chest. Her whole body is shaking, the careful composure she maintains around other people finally cracking under the weight of her fear.
"I can't end up like Pavel," she whispers against my shirt. "I can't leave my family with nothing."
"You won't."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I won't let anything happen to you."
The promise comes out automatically, but as soon as I say it, I realize I mean it. Somewhere between seducing her for information and spending two days with her in Moscow, my priorities have shifted. Protecting Vera has become more important than protecting my investigation.
She pulls back enough to look at me, searching my face for reassurance I'm not sure I can provide.
"Can you keep me safe from whatever is happening at this track?"
This is the moment I've been working toward, the vulnerability I need to extract information about her involvement with the Radich crew. But looking into her frightened eyes, I find myself caring more about her than the answer or the intelligence value.
"Tell me what you're mixed up in," I say gently. "All of it."
She takes a shaky breath, then begins to talk.
"There's a woman named Sonya. She approached me about six months ago, said she had work for someone trustworthy. Simple stuff at first—placing bets, picking up envelopes, nothing that seemed dangerous."
"What type of bets?"
"Specific horses in specific races. She'd give me the information and the money, I'd place the bets exactly as instructed. The winnings went to different pickup points around the city."
"How much money?"
"Started small. A few thousand rubles here and there. But lately…" She swallows hard. "The amounts have gotten bigger. Much bigger. Last week, she had me place bets worth more than I make in six months. And the horses always win. Misha… I'm scared."
"And you didn't think to ask questions?"
"I needed the money." Her voice is defensive now, but also ashamed. "Elvin's treatments, our rent—I couldn't keep up. Sonya paid me well for simple work, and I told myself it was harmless."
"It's not harmless, Vera. The people you're working for are dangerous."
Vera looks up at me with desperate eyes. "Misha, if they think I betrayed them somehow, if they decide I'm a risk…"
"They won't touch you."
"How can you promise that?"
Because I'll kill anyone who tries. Because protecting you has become more important than protecting myself. Because somewhere in the past few weeks, you've become mine to defend.
But I don't say any of that.
"Because I know who they are, and they know who I am.
There's a balance of power here, and as long as you're with me, you're under my protection.
" My arms squeeze her more tightly, and I decide right then and there that Vera is nothing more than a mule, worthless and easily replaceable to them but desperately important to me.
She nods, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "What happens now?"
Good question. I have the information I need—confirmation that Vera isn't in any deeper than she should be, details about their operation but proof that she's not the mastermind but rather a pawn being used.
Nikolai expects me to report back, to hand over Vera's name and let the family's enforcement arm handle the rest.
Instead, I find myself calculating how to keep her safe while still neutralizing the Radich threat.
"Now we figure out how to get you out of this without anyone getting hurt."
"Is that possible?"
"It has to be."
She curls back into my arms, and I hold her close, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing against my chest. In a few hours, I should call Nikolai with my report and tell him that Vera Kovalenko is the money mule for the Radich operation, that she can identify their handler, that she has enough information to bring down their race-fixing scheme.
But every time I think about making that call, I see Pavel's empty eyes staring up at me from the stable floor. I think about what happens to people who become liabilities in this business.
I need more time. More time to assess the Radich threat, more time to find a solution that doesn't end with Vera disappearing into an unmarked grave. More time to figure out when protecting her became more important than completing my assignment.
More time to understand why the thought of losing her makes my chest tighten with something I refuse to name.
"Stay close to me," I tell her. "Until this is over, don't go anywhere alone."
"Okay."
"And Vera?"
"Yeah?"
"Pavel's death wasn't an accident. Someone wanted him silenced before he could talk. The same people who've been using you."
Her grip on my shirt tightens. "You think they'll come after me next?"
"Not if I can help it."
It's another promise I'm not sure I can keep. But as I hold Vera in the growing darkness of the break room, listening to her breathe and feeling her trust in the way she relaxes against me, I know I'm going to try.
Even if it means going to war with the Radich family.
Even if it means defying my own people to keep her safe.
Even if it means admitting that this assignment stopped being about business the moment she looked at me like I was worth trusting.