Chapter 18 Misha
MISHA
Iposition myself in the track office with a clear view of the employee parking lot, watching through the blinds as cars filter in for the morning shift. Vera's schedule puts her arrival at seven thirty, but I've been here since six, reviewing security footage and mapping today's surveillance plan.
Vera's blue Honda pulls into its usual spot, and I watch her emerge, adjusting the strap of her work bag across her shoulder.
She moves differently than she did two weeks ago—slower, more cautious, with a careful way of holding herself that suggests discomfort.
Stress, probably. The situation with Sonya has been wearing on her, despite my reassurances about protection.
She heads toward the stable entrance, following her normal route, but then stops near the feed delivery area. Her head turns, scanning the parking lot, and I see her shoulders tense.
A black sedan idles near the far corner of the lot—the same car I've seen parked outside her apartment building at times. I know it's Sonya's car.
Vera checks her phone, reads a message, then glances around again before changing direction. Instead of entering through the main stable doors, she walks toward the maintenance shed behind building two. It's a route that takes her away from the security cameras, away from the usual foot traffic.
I grab my jacket and leave the office, moving quickly but staying out of sight. The maintenance shed is accessible through three different paths, and I choose the one that will give me the best vantage point without exposing my position.
By the time I reach the shed's rear corner, Vera is already inside. Through the grimy window, I can see her standing near the tool rack, her phone pressed to her ear. Her posture is rigid, defensive.
"I can't keep doing this." Her voice carries through the thin walls, sharp with strain. "Not after what happened to Pavel."
A pause, then her voice drops lower, but I can still make out the words.
"I understand the arrangement, but things have changed. There are people watching now, asking questions."
Another pause. Her free hand clenches into a fist.
"No, I haven't said anything to anyone. But I'm scared, Sonya. This whole situation is getting out of control."
The conversation continues for another minute, but her responses become shorter, more clipped. When she finally hangs up, she leans against the workbench and takes several deep breaths.
I wait until she leaves the shed before following her path back toward the stables. She moves quickly now, her earlier caution replaced by urgency. Whatever Sonya told her, it's pushed her into immediate action.
The paddock tunnel connects the stable complex to the track's betting facilities—a concrete corridor lined with pipes and electrical conduits, poorly lit and rarely used except during major race days. It's also the perfect location for discrete meetings and private conversations.
Vera heads straight for it.
I follow at a distance, my footsteps masked by the ambient noise from the nearby exercise ring. The tunnel entrance is hidden behind a row of equipment sheds, accessible only to authorized personnel. Vera has a key card—all stable workers do—but her use of this route at this time is suspicious.
She disappears into the tunnel, and I wait thirty seconds before following.
The tunnel is dim, lit only by emergency lighting every twenty feet. The concrete walls amplify every sound, making stealth difficult. I move carefully, using the support pillars for cover, until I can see Vera about fifty meters ahead.
She's not alone.
Sonya Radich stands near the tunnel's midpoint, her silhouette sharp against the weak lighting. Even from this distance, I can see the tension between the two women—Vera's defensive posture, Sonya's commanding presence.
Their voices echo off the walls, distorted but audible.
"The instructions have changed," Sonya says, her tone businesslike. "The betting pattern from last month is too obvious. We need more variation."
"I don't understand." Vera's voice quavers. "You said the system was working."
"It was working too well. People notice patterns, ask questions. Your friend the bookie, for instance."
My jaw tightens. They know I've been watching.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Vera says quickly.
Sonya's expression is hard as steel as she shifts back to her point. "The new approach requires different timing, different amounts. Smaller bets, spread across multiple races." Sonya steps closer to Vera. "Can you handle that, or do we need to find someone more reliable?"
"I can handle it," Vera mutters, and her head hangs.
"Good. Because your brother's treatments depend on your cooperation."
I can't see Vera's reaction, but her silence stretches long enough to suggest Sonya's words hit their mark.
"Any other considerations?" Vera finally asks.
"Let's just say that loyalty has benefits, and betrayal has consequences. For everyone involved."
Sonya hands Vera an envelope—the betting instructions, from what I can observe.
"Today's races. Follow the schedule exactly. No deviations or creative interpretations. And Vera?" Sonya's voice sharpens. "No more phone calls about being scared. This is business, not therapy."
Sonya turns and walks deeper into the tunnel, toward the track-side exit. Vera remains where she is, staring at the envelope in her hands.
I wait until Sonya's footsteps fade completely before moving. Vera is still standing in the same spot, her shoulders shaking slightly. When I step out of the shadows, she spins around with a gasp.
"Misha." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"What are you doing here?"
She clutches the envelope against her chest, her eyes wide with panic. "I got lost. I was looking for the supply room and took a wrong turn."
The lie is obvious, pathetic. The envelope in her hands, the fear in her eyes, the guilt written across her face—it all betrays her. She's ignoring what I told her to do.
"Try again," I say, my voice low and controlled. Her eyebrows rise now, jaw going slack.
"I don't know what you mean."
"The envelope, Vera. Sonya… The real reason you're in this tunnel instead of doing your job in the stables."
Her face goes pale, and for a moment I think she might collapse. "Misha, please—"
"The truth. Now!"
She looks around desperately, as though seeking an escape route. But we're alone in the tunnel, nowhere to run, no one to help her.
"It's not what it looks like," she says.
"What is it, then?"
"She's threatening to stop helping Elvin. I don't know what to do…"
The partial truth is worse than a complete lie. She's still trying to protect Sonya's operation, still putting their interests above her own safety. Maybe I've been wrong about her this whole time.
Cold anger settles in my chest—not at her, but at the situation that's forced her into this position. At Sonya for exploiting her desperation. At myself for letting it go this far.
"Don't lie to me." My voice comes out edged with the temper I'm struggling to control.
Vera flinches. "I'm not lying."
"You were taking instructions from Sonya Radich. The same Sonya who was connected to Pavel before he died. The same woman I told you to stop speaking with."
"I know, but…”
"You know?" I step closer, and she backs against the tunnel wall. "You know she's dangerous. You know this isn't about simple betting favors. And you know you're in deeper than you want to admit."
"Misha, please. I only place the bets. That's all. I don't know anything else."
The fear in her eyes is genuine, but there's something else there too—something she's not telling me. The way she holds herself, the careful movements, the protective way she positions the envelope against her body.
My temper flares, the careful control I've maintained for weeks threatening to snap.
The urge to shake the truth out of her, to make her understand how dangerous this game has become, rises in my throat.
I see blood. I see myself gripping her throat and choking her until she gives me the answers I need, and then…
Then I see the way she's looking at me—not with defiance or calculation, but with terror. She's not afraid of Sonya's threats or the consequences of the betting scheme. She's afraid of me.
And I stop cold.
Somewhere in the process of protecting her, investigating her, manipulating her trust, I've become another source of fear in her life.
I force my voice to soften, push down the anger that wants to explode. With a gravelly voice and a bitter taste on my tongue I push out, "I'm sorry."
The words feel foreign in my mouth. I can't remember the last time I apologized to anyone for anything. But the fear in Vera's eyes demands something I've never given before.
"I didn't mean to frighten you." The apology feels rough and unfamiliar. "I'm concerned about your safety, not angry with you."
Her shoulders ease slightly, though the wariness remains in her expression.
"I know you're in a difficult position," I continue. "I know someone is pressuring you, threatening people you care about. But lying to me won't make it better."
She searches my face, looking for deception or manipulation. Whatever she sees there seems to reassure her, because some of the tension leaves her posture.
"I'm scared," she admits quietly.
"Of what?"
"Of all of it. Of them, of what they might do if I stop cooperating. Of what might happen to Elvin if I can't pay for his treatments."
I close the distance between us, slowly, giving her time to move away if she wants to. She doesn't. Instead, she looks up at me with those green eyes that have been haunting my thoughts for weeks.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," I say, brushing my knuckles across her cheek. "I'm trying to protect you."
"I know. But there are things you don't understand, things I can't explain."
"Then trust me to help you figure it out."
I lean down and kiss her gently, nothing like the demanding intensity of our previous encounters.
This kiss is about reassurance, about offering comfort instead of taking it.
It feels toxic to my sense of self-preservation at first, deadly to my pride and ego.
And then it feels natural and intimate, and I find myself being grounded by it too.
She melts into me, her free hand gripping my jacket as though I'm the only solid thing in her world. The envelope crinkles between us, a reminder of the web of lies and threats that surrounds us both.
She pulls away, still leaning against me. "What happens now?" she asks.
"Now you go do your job, and I do mine. But Vera?" I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. "This isn't over. Sonya and her crew, the betting scheme, the threats—I'm going to end it. All of it."
She nods, though I can see the doubt in her eyes.
"Stay close to me today," I tell her. "And if anyone approaches you, anyone you don't recognize, you find me immediately."
"Okay."
I watch her walk back toward the stable entrance, the envelope still clutched in her hand.
She'll follow Sonya's instructions today.
She has no choice, with her brother's life hanging in the balance.
But the conversation I overheard has given me new information about their operation, new insights into their vulnerabilities.
More importantly, it's confirmed what I've suspected for weeks. Vera is a pawn, not a player. She's being used by people who see her desperation as a tool, her love for her family as a weakness to exploit.
The cold anger returns, sharper now and more focused. Sonya Radich thinks she can operate on Vetrov territory, using our people, bleeding our resources, threatening those under our protection.
She's wrong.
But first, I need to get closer to her operation. And the only way to do that is through Vera—which means maintaining her trust while using her access to destroy the people who've been manipulating her.
It's a dangerous balance, protecting someone while using them. But as I walk back toward the track office, the taste of Vera's kiss still on my lips, I know I'm in too deep to turn back.
The feeling of her leaning into me, trusting me despite her fear, leaves me more unsteady than I want to admit.
But I can't sit and examine that. Right now, I have a war to plan.