Chapter 5 Katya
KATYA
In the jockeys’ locker room, I scrub away the filth left after the manual labor I did yesterday from my hands and notice the bruises forming on my arm where Dimitri's fingers dug in.
My clothes are still dirty, but when no one is looking, I manage to rifle through a few unlocked lockers and find a clean shirt and a comb to go through my hair.
I'm not even close to presentable, but at least I don't still smell like horse shit.
I make my way across the yard toward the main stable, where the card room sits tucked behind a set of offices.
I guess it's where track staff unwind, but it's just as dumpy as the rest of this old rundown place.
I push through the door, and the interior is dim, lit by a few overhead fixtures.
There's a card table in the corner, a bar along one wall, several small dining tables scattered around the place, and a bunch of men, and most of them don't look like jockeys.
They look up when I enter, and the conversation dies.
I feel their eyes on me, assessing, dismissive, and I keep my expression neutral as I cross to the small bar in the corner.
A bottle of vodka sits on the counter next to a stack of glasses, and I pour myself a shot, keeping my back to the room.
Just the sort of setup that gets people killed around here, but I can't exactly refuse to obey Dimitri.
He has my pendant, and I want it back before I sneak away and never show my face around here again.
So I have to tuck my head down, play his game, and with any luck, he'll give me what I want and I can make myself scarce.
"You lost?" one of them grumbles.
"No," I say, turning to face them. "I'm looking for a game."
I throw the vodka back like I'm a regular drinker and pretend it doesn't burn going down.
The man who spoke is older, maybe fifty, with a graying beard and a gut that pushes against his shirt.
He looks me over, his gaze lingering in places it shouldn't, and then he laughs.
"This isn't a game for you, sweetheart. You should get lost."
"I've got money," I say, leaning against the bar. "And I've got time. If you don't want it, I'll find someone else who does."
Another man stands, his chair scraping against the floor.
He's younger, leaner, with a scar running down the side of his face.
"You heard him. Get out."
I don't move.
I set the glass on the counter and rest my elbow there.
"I'm not here to play cards with you. I'm here to make money. If you can't help me with that, then point me to someone who can."
The way they're looking at me makes me nervous.
I've had tougher conversations before, but never without an anchor waiting to come to my rescue.
Dimitri was there yesterday when one of his men threatened to get handsy, but I don’t know where he's at today or if he'd even risk coming to my aid in this situation.
He wants me to sell this, so I just have to stand here shaking.
The younger man takes a step toward me, and I can see the threat in his posture, the way his hands curl into fists.
But before he reaches me, another voice cuts through the room.
"Leave her alone."
I turn, and a man is standing in the doorway.
He's thin, with a narrow face and nervous eyes that dart around the room before settling on me.
Rodion.
I recognize him from the other day when Dimitri went through my bag.
It makes my shoulders loosen, and I know I'm going to break this man.
I can see his weakness just by looking at his appearance.
The younger man glances at Rodion, then back at me, and he spits on the floor before returning to his seat.
The tension in the room shifts, but it doesn't disappear.
Rodion crosses to the bar, standing close enough that I can smell the tobacco on his clothes.
"You're new," he says, his voice low.
"I am."
"What do you want?"
"Information," I say, keeping my tone casual.
"I've been betting on races, but I keep losing. I need an edge."
Our volume is low enough that no one can hear us, but there's no way I'm going to let him miss my intention here.
His eyes narrow as he reaches for a glass and the bottle of vodka.
"What do you mean, an edge?"
"I mean I need to know the odds before they're posted. I need to know which horses are favored, which ones are going to tank. I'm willing to pay for that information."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see the wheels turning in his head.
He's weighing the risk, trying to decide whether I'm legitimate or this is a trap.
I hold his gaze, letting him see the desperation I'm faking, the hunger for easy money.
"That's not how this works," he says finally.
"You can't just walk in here and ask for insider information. People get killed for less."
"Then I'll go somewhere else."
I push off the bar and start toward the door, and I hear him move behind me.
I'm out the door with him following before he speaks again, which is exactly what I expect.
He's dirty and he wants my money, but he doesn't want anyone knowing what he's doing.
"Wait."
I stop and turn.
He's closer now, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
He looks back at the room, making sure no one is paying attention, and then he lowers his voice.
"I might be able to help you," he says. "But it's going to cost you."
"How much?"
"Quarter-million rubles. For the first gig."
I let out a low whistle, shaking my head.
"That's a lot."
Of course this fucker isn't getting a dime, and just knowing one of Dimitri's men is being unfaithful to him sets me off, but I'm so good at selling a line, this man probably thinks I'm having second thoughts about investing in his scheme.
No way he knows I've been sent to nab him.
"It's worth it. You'll make it back ten times over if you bet smart."
"And when do I get this information?"
"Meet me tomorrow night. Behind the training ring, midnight. Bring the cash, and I'll bring what you need."
I nod slowly, as if I'm considering it.
"All right. I'll be there."
He steps back, and I see the relief in his face, the greed already taking hold.
The cool air outside is a relief after the stale heat inside the card room.
My hands are shaking, and I shove them into my pockets as I walk back across the yard.
Dimitri is waiting for me in the tack room.
He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and he looks up when I enter.
I close the door behind me and cross the room, stopping a few paces away from him.
"Well?" he says.
"He took the bait," I say and polish one tooth with the tip of my tongue.
Dimitri has a problem on his hands and I've helped him solve part of it.
I fucking hope he gives me my pendant back now and lets me go home.
"He wants a quarter-million rubles for information about the races. He's meeting me tomorrow night behind the training ring."
Dimitri nods and says, "Good. You did well."
"I did what you told me to do," I snap.
"We're even now. I'm done."
His jaw clenches, and he pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us.
"You're not done. You're not even close to done."
"I got you what you needed. I gave you Rodion. That's the deal."
"There was no deal," he says, his voice dropping to a rumbling growl.
"You don't get to negotiate with me. You don't get to walk away because you think you've paid your debt. You're here because I allow it, and you'll leave when I decide you're no longer useful."
"Fuck you," I say, and I turn toward the door.
His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist, and he yanks me back.
I spin around, fury burning through my chest, and I swing at him.
My palm connects with his face, the slap loud in the small room, and for a moment, everything stops.
Then his hand is around my throat.
He moves fast, slamming me back against the wall, and the impact knocks the breath out of my lungs.
His fingers press, not enough to choke me but enough to make it clear that he could if he wanted to.
His face is inches from mine, his intense eyes locked onto me, and I freeze.
He's so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the faint trace of tobacco and that cloud of cologne that clings to him.
His hand is rough, callused, and his grip is unyielding.
I should be terrified.
Part of me is.
But there's another part, a part I don't want to acknowledge, that notices how strong he is, how completely he dominates the space between us.
His thumb brushes over my jawline, the touch almost gentle, and my breath catches.
He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends a chill down my spine.
"You belong to me now," he says.
"The only way out is to die. So you should get used to being used by me for whatever purpose suits me."
His eyes drop to my lips, then dip to my chest where his elbow brushes my tits, and then back up to meet my gaze.
"Do you understand?"
I can't speak.
My throat is tight, and my pulse is pounding in my ears.
Of course I understand.
I know perfectly what he's trying to say and it makes my core clench.
His hand loosens slightly, and I suck in a breath, but I don't move.
I can't move.
He's too close, too overwhelming, and every nerve in my body is screaming at me to run, to fight, to do anything other than stand here frozen against the wall.
But I stay pinned, watching him, and I see the flicker of something in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not cruelty.
It's darker than that, more dangerous, and it sends a thrill through me that I don't understand.
His hand slides from my throat, and he retreats, putting space between us.
I'm still pressed against the wall, my legs weak, and I watch as he crosses to the door.
He pulls it open, glances back at me once, and then he's gone.
The lock clicks into place, and I hear his footsteps fade down the hallway.
I slide down the wall, my knees giving out, and I sit there on the floor, trying to catch my breath.
My hands are shaking, and I press them against my thighs, willing them to stop.
My throat aches where his fingers were, and I reach up, touching the skin gently, feeling the phantom pressure of his grip.
No man has ever manhandled me before.
I've been around powerful men, dangerous men, and I've always kept my distance, always stayed in control.
But Dimitri is different.
He's not trying to prove anything.
He's not posturing or testing me.
He's simply stating facts, and the certainty in his voice makes it impossible to argue.
If he wanted to hurt me, he would have.
I know that.
I've seen what he's capable of, the way he moves through this place with absolute authority.
But he didn't.
He held me there, his hand around my throat, and then he let go.
And the worst part, the part that makes my stomach twist, is that I wasn't entirely afraid.
There was fear, yes, but there was also something that makes my stomach flip and be nauseated at the same time.
The way he stood so close, the way his breath brushed against my face, the way his thumb traced my jawline—it was deliberate.
He wanted me to feel it, to understand what it meant.
And when he said he would use me for whatever purpose suited him, there was no mistaking the implication.
He didn't mean work.
He didn't mean running errands or playing spy.
He meant something darker, something that sent a jolt through me that I'm still feeling now.
I close my eyes, pressing my palms against the floor, trying to ground myself.
I've always prided myself on being smart, on reading people, on staying two steps ahead.
But Dimitri is a wall I can't see over, a force I don't know how to navigate.
And the fact that part of me responded to him, that part of me wanted to lean into his grip instead of pulling away—that scares me.
I push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady, and I move to the chair, sinking into it.
The room is cold now, the heat from earlier fading, and I wrap my arms around myself.
My mind is racing, replaying the moment over and over, and I can't make sense of it.
He's dangerous.
He's ruthless.
He could kill me without a second thought.
But when he touched me, I felt something I've never felt before.
A pull.
A hunger.
A need.
I sit there waiting for him to come back and I know, with a sinking certainty, that I'm in deeper than I ever intended to be.