Chapter 4 Dimitri
DIMITRI
Iunlock the tack shed at seven in the morning, and the smell hits me before I see her.
Stale sweat, animal waste, and the sour tang of fear that hasn't faded overnight.
Katya is curled in the corner on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes half-open and glazed.
She doesn't move when I step inside and crouch in front of her.
I almost feel sorry for making her sleep on the concrete.
Almost.
"Get up," I say.
This woman tried to steal the most valuable horse this track owns, and one hard-fought to keep too.
That mare is the best thing to happen to this track in a decade.
There's no way she's just walking away from that.
She blinks slowly, and for a moment, I think she's going to refuse.
Then she unfolds herself and pushes herself to her feet.
Her clothes are filthy, her hair tangled, and there are dark circles under her eyes that weren't there yesterday.
She looks at me with an expression that's somewhere between defiance and exhaustion, and I know she's close to breaking.
But I need her sharp, not shattered.
"Come with me," I say, turning toward the door.
She follows without argument, stumbling slightly as she moves into the morning light.
I lead her across the yard to my office, a small room at the back of the main building with a desk, a chair, and nothing else.
The walls are bare, the window covered with a blind that's always drawn, and the only light comes from a single overhead fixture.
I gesture for her to sit, and she lowers herself into the chair, her hands gripping the armrests.
I close the door and lean against the desk, crossing my arms as I study her.
She doesn't look away, doesn't drop her gaze, and I'm reminded again that she's not an ordinary thief.
She's got control, even when she's falling apart.
"You're going to work for me," I say. "Not mucking stalls or hauling buckets. A task that requires your actual skills."
Her eyes narrow.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're a con artist. You broke into this place with a plan, you scouted it for days, and you walked in here knowing exactly what you were after. That takes talent. And I need that talent."
"For what?" she asks skeptically.
Her eyes narrow on me as if she's intrigued and settle on my face as I decide just how much I want to tell her.
"To find the traitor in my crew."
I push off the desk and move to the window, pulling the blind aside to look out at the yard.
Men are moving between buildings, starting their shifts, and from here, I can see most of the operation.
"Someone on my staff has been feeding information to the Radich crew. Guard rotations, delivery schedules, blind spots in security. They've been leaking everything, and it's been going on for weeks. I need to know who it is, and I need proof before I can act."
"And you think I can help you with that?"
Her voice is flat as she looks at me with a deadpan expression.
"I know you can."
I turn back to face her.
"There's a groom named Rodion. He's been acting nervous, avoiding eye contact, showing up late. I've had my eye on him for a while, but I can't prove anything. The other night, he left one of the sheds unlocked. I thought he was working with you to steal that horse, but clearly, he's not."
I deduced that in the way he acts when she's around.
He doesn’t know her.
"That's where you come in."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Pose as a buyer. Someone interested in purchasing information about upcoming races. You'll approach him, feel him out, and see if he's willing to sell. If he is, I'll know he's the leak. If he's not, then I'll move on to the next suspect."
She stares at me, her mouth tightening.
"You want me to be your spy."
"I want you to do what you're good at. Lie. Manipulate. Get people to trust you long enough to give you what you need."
"And if I refuse?"
I move closer, leaning down so my face is level with hers.
"Then I'll kill you. I told you that already. You broke into my property. You tried to steal from me. I've let you live this long because you're useful, but the second you stop being useful, you're done."
Her jaw tightens, and I see the anger flash in her eyes, but she doesn't argue.
She knows I mean it.
Being this close to her, I can tell she's intimidated by me.
There are little tells—the way her lip twitches before she speaks, the way her fingers curl and uncurl.
That glint in her eye as she meets my gaze.
All of those add up to her being afraid.
If I can only keep myself focused on reading her and not get distracted by how delicate her eyelashes are as her eyes close and open slowly, or the way her hair frames her face, catching the light.
"When?" she finally asks.
"Today. But first, you need to learn enough about horses and betting to pull this off.
If you walk up to him sounding clueless, he'll shut you down immediately.
So you're going to sit here, and I'm going to teach you.
" I lean back, still assessing her but realizing that my examination has to stay purely business.
I can't let her good looks or the curve of her ass in those jeans get under my skin.
She lets out a bitter laugh.
"You're going to teach me about horses?"
"Unless you already know what a trifecta is, or how odds are calculated, or what the hell a furlong means, then yes. I'm going to teach you."
I walk to the desk and pull out a stack of papers—charts, betting slips, race schedules—and spread them across the surface.
Katya watches me with an annoyed glare on her face, and I gesture for her to stand.
She does, moving to the desk, and I stop beside her, close enough that I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Start here," I say, pointing to a chart that shows the odds for a recent race.
"This is how betting works. The numbers represent the payout ratio. If a horse is listed at five to one, that means for every ruble you bet, you get five back if it wins. The lower the number, the more favored the horse is."
She leans over the chart, her eyes scanning the rows of numbers, and I can see her mind working.
She's quick, absorbing the information faster than I expected.
"What's a trifecta?" she asks.
"It's a bet where you pick the first three horses in exact order. High risk, high reward. Most people don't bother with it unless they've got inside information."
"And that's what you think Rodion is selling? Information about which horses are favored?"
Her arms cross over her chest, pushing her tits out, and I notice.
Fuck, do I notice.
I tear my eyes away to focus on the papers, but it's making my dick swell.
"Not favored. Fixed. There are ways to manipulate a race if you know what you're doing. Drug a horse, bribe a jockey, interfere with training schedules. If Rodion is leaking details about those fixes, then people can bet accordingly and make a fortune."
She straightens up, uncrossing her arms to shove her hands in her pockets.
"And you think he's stupid enough to admit that to a stranger?"
"I think he's desperate enough. He's in debt, and he's scared. If you approach him the right way, he'll bite."
"What's the right way?"
I move to stand behind her, reaching past her shoulder to point at another section of the chart.
My arm brushes against hers, and I feel her stiffen.
I don't pull back.
"You tell him you've got money to spend, but you're new to the game and you need an edge. You play dumb at first, make him think you're easy to manipulate. Then you drop hints that you're willing to pay for reliable information. You let him think it's his idea to offer you a deal."
"And if he doesn't take the bait?"
"Then you push harder. Flatter him. Make him feel important. Appeal to his greed."
I lean closer, my voice dropping.
"You've done this before. I know you have. You didn't get this far as a thief without knowing how to read people."
She turns her head slightly, and our faces are inches apart.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
The air between us feels charged, too close, and I'm aware of the heat radiating from her body.
Katya Volsky may as well be crack in a smoking pipe begging me to get a fix.
I'm a ruined man if I cave in to my carnal desire to bend her over this desk before I get my answers.
"Fine," she says, her voice tight. "What else do I need to know?"
I pull back, putting space between us, and return to the desk.
My blood is pumping and my cock is straining at the zipper of my slacks, but I try to keep focused on the task at hand.
"You need to know basic terminology. A furlong is about two hundred meters. A maiden race is for horses that haven't won yet. A claiming race is where the horses can be purchased by other owners. If Rodion starts talking specifics, you need to be able to follow along without looking lost."
Katya nods, and I spend the next hour drilling her on terms, race types, and betting strategies.
She asks sharp questions, challenges me when something doesn't make sense, and absorbs everything I throw at her with a focus that's almost unsettling.
By the time we're done, I'm convinced she can handle the assignment.
But I'm also aware of something else.
Watching her work, seeing the way her mind adapts and shifts, the way she leans into the role without hesitation—it stirs feelings I don't want to acknowledge.
She's smart, sharper than most of the men I work with, and there's a ruthlessness beneath her surface that mirrors my own.
It's not professional appreciation.
It's darker, more complicated, and I push it down before it can take root.
"You're ready," I say, leaning back against the desk. "You'll approach him this afternoon. He usually takes his break around three, and he'll be in the card room behind the main stable. Go in, order a drink, and sit close enough to start a conversation. Don't force it. Let him come to you."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then you make it happen. You conned someone into believing you could deliver my prize-winning mare. You can do this."
She stands, her arms still crossed, and looks at me with an expression I can't read.
"Why are you trusting me with this? For all you know, I could walk into that room and tell him exactly what you're planning."
"You could," I admit. "But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're smart enough to realize that crossing me would be the last mistake you ever make. And because, whether you want to admit it or not, you're starting to understand how this works. You're in my world now, and the only way out is through."
She doesn't respond, but I see the truth settle in her eyes.
She knows I'm right.
"Get out of here," I say, nodding toward the door. "Clean yourself up before this afternoon. You can't walk into that room looking the way you do now."
She turns and walks out, and I watch her go, the door closing behind her.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the charts spread across my desk, and I think about the way she looked at me earlier.
The way her body tensed when I leaned close, the way her voice dropped when she challenged me.
This is a complication I don't need.
She's a tool, a means to an end, and I can't afford to see her as anything else.
But the thought lingers, and I'm forced to shove it aside with the same discipline I've used to survive this long.
I have a traitor to catch, and Katya is going to help me do it.