4. Maksim
MAKSIM
I lean against the fence outside Podsolnukh Racetrack, watching the last of the evening crowd filter out through the gates.
The air carries the scent of cigarettes and horse sweat, a smell you get used to when working at the tracks.
I've been here forty minutes, but I don't check my watch. Patience is part of the job.
Zoya emerges at nine fifteen, her dark hair pulled back in the same neat ponytail she wore three days ago when I first questioned her.
She spots me immediately—I'm not hiding—and her stride doesn't falter.
There's not even a hint of surprise in her gait, which tells me she's been preparing for tonight.
"Punctual," she says when she reaches me.
"You sound surprised."
"Most men I know operate on their own schedules."
I push off from the fence and fall into step beside her. "I'm not most men."
She glances at me sideways, and I catch the hint of a smile before she turns her attention back to the street ahead. "So I'm learning."
The bar I chose is three blocks from the track—close enough to feel familiar to her, far enough to avoid the usual crowd of degenerates and bookmakers. Dim lighting, worn leather booths, the kind of place where conversations disappear into the ambient noise. Perfect for what I need to accomplish.
I hold the door open for her, and she brushes past me without acknowledgment. She offers no thank you, no feminine flutter. She's not trying to impress me with how cold she can be, which makes the job more interesting.
We claim a corner booth, and I signal the bartender for two vodkas. Zoya settles across from me, her posture relaxed but alert. She's studying me the same way I'm studying her—cataloging details, looking for weaknesses.
"You don't strike me as the dinner type," she says when the drinks arrive.
"What type do I strike you as?"
"The type who gets what he wants without buying dinner first."
I laugh, and her eyes widen slightly at the sound. She wasn't expecting that response. Good. Unpredictability creates openings.
"You're not wrong," I admit, raising my glass. "But you're worth the investment."
She doesn't blush or look away. Instead, she meets my toast and drinks without ceremony. The vodka disappears down her throat like water.
"Tell me about the track," I say, settling back in the booth. "You've been there, what, five years?"
"Four." She sets her glass down with care. "You already know that, though."
"I know the facts. I want to know what you think about it."
"What I think?" She considers this, tilting her head. "I think it's a place where desperate people make bad decisions with their money, and I help facilitate those decisions. It's honest work, in its way."
"Honest." I repeat the word, tasting it. "Interesting choice."
"More honest than pretending to be noble about it.
The people who come to the track aren't victims. They're adults making adult choices.
I just handle the paperwork." There's steel in her voice when she says this, a hardness that doesn't match her quiet demeanor.
She's defending her world, which means she knows it's shameful work—taking money from gambling addicts and men who drink too much. So she has a conscience...
"What about before the track?" I ask. "University?"
Her fingers find the rim of her vodka glass, rotating it slowly on the scarred wood table. "Accounting. Two years before I dropped out."
"Why?"
"Family obligations."
The pause that follows tells me everything. Family obligations in her world means her brother got into trouble and she paid the price. It's a story I've heard a dozen times, but hearing it from her makes it feel fresh.
"Regrets?" I ask.
"About dropping out?" She shrugs. "Numbers are numbers. I use the same skills now that I would have used in some corporate office. The only differences are the hours and the clientele."
"And the money."
"The money's better at the track." She finishes her vodka and sets the glass down with finality. "What about you? Always been in the family business?"
The question is careful, neutral. She's fishing, but she's good at it. I could deflect, keep the focus on her, but giving her small pieces of truth will make her trust me faster.
"Since I was old enough to hold a gun properly," I say. "My father believed in early education."
"That must have been a childhood." She scoffs and rolls her eyes, stealing a glance at the bartender as if she wants another drink. I raise my finger, and he nods at me before I answer.
"It was a childhood. Not necessarily a good one, but it prepared me for what came after. You learn quickly when the alternative is disappointing people you can't afford to disappoint."
She nods, and I see recognition in her eyes. She understands that kind of pressure, that weight of family expectations. It's another connection, another thread I can pull.
"Do you ever think about leaving?" she asks when the fresh drinks arrive.
"Moscow?" I lift one eyebrow, not sure I understand her or her question.
"The life."
The question surprises me with its directness. Most people dance around the subject of the Bratva, afraid to acknowledge what everyone knows. But Zoya asks it plainly, without apology.
"No," I answer honestly. "This is what I am. Where would I go?"
"Anywhere. You could be anyone."
"Could you?"
She goes quiet, considering. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. "Sometimes, I think about it. Getting on a train and going somewhere nobody knows my name. Starting over."
"What stops you?"
"Same thing that stops you, I think. This is what I am too."
The admission is more intimate than anything we've shared so far, probably more intimate than I expected this evening. It's like she's putty in my hand. She's letting me see something real, something vulnerable. Either she's very good at this game or the vodka is working faster than expected.
I lean forward, closing the distance between us across the small table. "Maybe we're both exactly where we're supposed to be."
Her eyes find mine and hold. The air grows thicker, charged with chemistry more tangible than the night I followed her to her house. When I reach across the table and touch her hand, she doesn't pull away.
"Maybe we are," she says quietly.
We stay until the bar starts emptying out, the conversation flowing easier as the night progresses.
She tells me about her favorite books—Russian classics, mostly, heavy stories about suffering and redemption.
I tell her about the places I've traveled for work, editing out the violence but keeping the details that make her eyes light up.
By the time we step onto the street, she's laughing at my story about a job in Prague that went sideways when I couldn't speak enough Czech to order coffee. The sound of her laughter is unexpected—bright and genuine, completely at odds with her previous careful composure.
"I didn't think you were funny," she says as we walk toward her building, her arms wrapped around my bicep. I couldn't have planned this evening to go better, which makes me slightly suspicious.
"I'm full of surprises," I tell her, carefully keeping her tipsy footsteps on the sidewalk.
"I'm starting to realize that."
At her building’s door, I turn to face her. The streetlight catches the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, and for a moment, I forget this is a job. She's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read—interest, maybe, or calculation. Both, probably.
"Thank you for the drinks," she says, "and the entertainment."
"Thank you for the company."
I step closer, and she doesn't retreat. When I cup her face in my hands, her skin is warm and soft under my palms. The kiss starts gentle, testing, but when she responds, opening to me, it deepens into something that feels dangerously real.
When we break apart, we're both breathing harder.
"I could join you?" I ask in a husky voice. "Have a cup of coffee." This evening has gone so well, I don't want to stop the momentum. The sooner I have her comfortable with me, the sooner I get information on where Damir is. And checking out her apartment for signs of him isn't a bad idea, either.
She smiles but shakes her head. "I don't sleep with men on the first date."
"What about the second date?"
"Ask me then..." she says, then opens the door and disappears inside without looking back, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with the taste of her still on my lips.
I walk back to my car feeling satisfied with the night's work. She's interested, engaged, exactly where I need her to be. The physical attraction is stronger than expected, but that only makes the job easier. People are more willing to trust someone they want to sleep with.
By the time I drive away, I'm already planning our next encounter. This is going better than I hoped.