Chapter 11 Katya
KATYA
The Mytishchi market is crowded at noon, bodies pressed close between stalls selling everything from bootleg cigarettes to stolen electronics.
I keep my head down and my hands in my pockets as I weave through the crowd, tracking the man Dimitri described.
Tall, narrow shoulders, a brown jacket with a patch on the left elbow.
He's carrying a messenger bag slung across his chest, and he moves casually, suggesting he has no clue I'm following him.
I spot him near a vegetable stall, haggling over a bag of potatoes, and I time my approach.
It's not like this is the first time I've played the part of pickpocket, but for some reason this time, my nerves feel raw.
My palms are sweaty, heart racing, and when he turns to leave, I bump into him hard enough to make him stumble.
Probably a bit overkill, but I have to work with it anyway.
"Watch it," he snaps, steadying himself.
"Sorry, God, so sorry," I mutter, moving away and letting my gaze drop to the ground.
The feigned shame hits its target.
He doesn't look at me twice and I suck in a breath of relief.
The man adjusts his bag, and I slip my hand into his pocket, feeling the phone with the tips of two fingers.
I lift as he walks, and the phone slides from his coat, firmly pinched in my grasp.
But the mini celebration and release of endorphins is secondary to my task.
I glance around at the crowd still moving past me as I get started.
Sixty seconds.
That's all I need.
I move to the edge of the market where Dimitri's tech is waiting in a parked van and knock twice on the side door.
My body is still poised to run if need be as the door slides open.
A young guy with glasses and a laptop balanced on his knees gestures for me to hand it over, so I pass him the phone, and he plugs it into a cable, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
"Forty-five seconds," he says, not looking up.
He doesn’t have to remind me.
If that douche finds out I took his phone, I'm dead.
All of this will be for nothing.
I watch the crowd while my pulse races and the tech works.
The courier is still visible, moving slowly between stalls, and I know I have time.
But even deep breathing isn't helping me calm down.
I might've done this before, but never to a man this dangerous.
Dimitri is insane asking me to jump into his caliber of a play and expecting me not to fail.
The tech works fast, copying data, pulling call logs, and when he unplugs the phone and hands it back, I'm already moving, weaving back through the market, tracking the courier's brown jacket, and I find him near a fish stall.
He's reaching into his pocket, patting himself down, and I see the moment he realizes the phone is gone.
His face goes tight, and he spins around, scanning the crowd with wide eyes.
I walk up to him, holding the phone out.
"Excuse me. I think you dropped this."
My hand is still so sweaty, I swear I'll drop the damn thing, but I manage to keep my grip on it and my face calm.
He stares at me, then at the phone, and he snatches it from my hand.
"Where did you find it?"
"Back by the potatoes where I bumped into you. It was on the ground."
With a flick of my eyebrows, a tilt of my head, I give him the impression that I'm innocent and just trying to be helpful.
But under the surface, my pulse is hammering and I think I may be sick.
He checks the screen, scrolling through it quickly, and then he shoves it back into his pocket.
"Thanks."
I nod and walk away, keeping my pace unhurried.
By the time I reach the edge of the market, he's already forgotten me.
The entire thing took less than five minutes, and I'm out before anyone can connect me to the lift.
When I get back to the van, the tech is grinning.
"Clean work, Katya. Dimitri wasn't joking. You're good."
I don't respond.
I climb into the passenger seat and buckle in as the van pulls away from the curb, heading back toward Dimitri's home.
I feel the faint rush of adrenaline fading as we drive, but I know this won't be the last task before he lets me go.
That would be too easy for him.
I am too good at what I do for him to give me up until his job of tracking down this man is over.
Resting my head on the headrest behind me, I press my eyes shut and take a few deep breaths while the tech drives.
The events of the past few weeks are all jumbled and blurred.
I find my hand rising to my chest to clutch the pendant my mother gave me.
When I first started grifting, I did it to get enough money to buy some food or pay for a night in a cheap hostel.
Now I'm helping a criminal organization root out its enemies and risking my life.
It doesn’t seem right, but I have no choice.
By the time we reach Dimitri's apartment, it's late afternoon.
The tech drops me off and drives away, leaving me standing on the street corner.
I could try to run off, but I know they'd just track me down.
This won't be over until I finish what I promised to do, and after that, I may still have to fight my way out.
Dimitri is waiting inside, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed.
He looks up when I enter and his gaze looks me over from head to toe.
"Any trouble?" he asks.
"None," I mutter, and I don’t mention how anxious I got this time.
It wouldn't matter to him if my heart physically exploded during a job and I died.
I'm nothing more than an asset to him.
This world is a cruel place, and he’s a cruel taskmaster.
He nods and gestures for me to sit.
I drop into one of the kitchen chairs, and he moves to the counter, pouring two mugs of coffee.
He sets one in front of me and leans back, watching me.
"Did they copy the phone?" I ask.
"They did. Call patterns, contacts, text logs. Everything."
He pulls out his own phone and scrolls through it, then turns the screen toward me.
"Most of the calls are to known Radich crew members. A lot of them cluster around a gambling operation on the east side. It's a small card room, private games, high stakes."
I study the screen, noting the frequency and timing.
"They're using it as a front?"
"Maybe. Or they're running money through it. Either way, it's where their people spend time. Which means it's where you're going next."
I set the mug down after a long drink and lean back in my chair.
"What's the play?"
I ask him, because that's what he's about to tell me.
His orders for me will be handed over and I'll be expected to comply and perform like a marionette.
I may as well know now what I'll have to do.
The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get out of Moscow and make my way home to try to repair my broken relationship with my mother.
"You go in as a gambler. Remember, you need fast cash to cover your debts to me—that's your cover. You lose a few hands, make yourself visible, and let their scouts approach you. They're always watching for people who owe money, people they can use."
"And then?"
"Then you let them recruit you. You play the desperate mark, someone willing to do favors for cash. Once you're in their network, you get closer to the people running the operation. And eventually, you get me the name I need."
I cross my arms, staring at the table.
"I'm not good at poker."
"You don't need to be good. You need to lose convincingly. Make them think you're in over your head, that you're desperate. That's the hook."
"And what if they see through it?"
"They won't. You've already proven you can handle yourself. The market job was clean, no mistakes. You know how to play a role."
He sets his phone down and moves closer, pulling out the chair across from me.
"But you won't be alone. You'll be wired, monitored the entire time. If anything goes wrong, I'll pull you out."
The thought of being wired, of having him listen to every word I say, every breath I take, makes my stomach clench, but I don't argue.
This is what I agreed to.
This is the job.
"When do I go?" I ask.
"Tomorrow night. I'll set it up."
I nod and push myself to my feet.
There's food on the counter—bread, cheese, sliced meat—but after that, my stomach is turning.
I'm not interested in eating right now.
"I'm going to my room."
Dimitri doesn't stop me, not even a peep of protest.
I just need to lie down for a moment to get a breather, so I walk down the hallway, passing his bedroom on the way to the guest room where I've been staying for the past week.
The door to his room is open, and I glance inside without meaning to.
The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled, and there's a shirt draped over the back of a chair.
It's simple, ordinary, but the sight of it makes my pulse quicken.
I think about how he fucked me, the way he pinned me to that wall, his hand fisted in my hair, his voice right in my ear.
The way he made me come so hard I could barely stand afterward.
I've been craving that rush ever since.
The feeling of being completely taken, completely controlled, the way he looked at me afterward as if I belonged to him.
It scares me how much I want it again.
That even now, my core is throbbing and feeling the familiar ache of arousal.
I'm still staring at the bed when I hear footsteps behind me.
I turn, and Dimitri is standing in the hallway, his eyes locked on mine.
He doesn't say anything at first.
He walks toward me slowly, and my breath catches.
"See anything you're thinking about?" he asks, his voice low.
I can't answer.
My throat's too tight, and my body is already reacting to his proximity, the heat radiating off him, the way he's looking at me.
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
"You've been walking past my room a lot this week. Probably fantasizing about how I make you feel."
"I haven't—"
"Don't lie to me."
He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw.
"You want it again. You've been thinking about it. Haven't you?"
My face flushes, and I hate how easily he reads me, how transparent I am to him.
I back away, putting distance between us, but he follows.
"You've been a good girl this week," he says, and there's a dark edge to his voice that makes my stomach flip.
"Doing exactly what I tell you to do. No complaints, no arguments. I think you deserve a reward."
"I don't need a reward."
"No?"
He tilts his head, studying me. "Then why are you standing here staring at my bed?"
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out.
He's too close, too overwhelming, and I can feel the pull between us.
It makes heat swarm to my lower body.
"I could spank you," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Bend you over my knee and remind you exactly who you belong to. Would you behave for that? Would you be a good girl and take it?"
The words send a jolt of heat through my body that I'm not prepared for.
My thighs clench, and I feel my face burn with embarrassment and arousal in equal measure.
The image he's painted—me draped over his lap, his hand coming down on my ass, the sting and the pleasure mixing together—it's too vivid, too visceral, and I can't push it away.
I turn and walk quickly down the hallway on unsteady legs, and I hear him chuckle softly behind me.
The sound follows me into the guest room, and I close the door, leaning back against it and pressing my palms to my burning cheeks.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I cross to the bed and sit down, trying to calm my racing heart.
A week ago, I hated him.
I hated everything about this situation, the way he controlled me, the way he used me.
But now, after that night, after he took me apart and put me back together, I can't stop thinking about him and wanting him.
And the worst part is, he knows it.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, replaying his words in my mind.
The way he looked at me, the way his voice sounded when he offered to spank me.
The way my body responded, aching and desperate for him to touch me.
I'm in too deep.
I know I am.
This was supposed to be a job, a way to earn my freedom, but it's turned into something else, and I don't know how to pull myself out of it.
I promised to fuck him then do the job, but I'm daydreaming about him, waking up with my core so tight I might explode after sex dreams where he pins me to the wall in a choke hold and fucks me.
It's out of control.
I close my eyes and try to focus on the plan.
Tomorrow night, I'll go to the card room.
I'll play the role, lose a few hands, and let the Radich scouts approach me.
I'll do exactly what Dimitri told me to do, and I'll get him the information he needs.
And when it's all over, I'll walk away.
But even as I think it, I know it's a lie.
I'm not walking away when every part of me is drawn to him, craving the way he makes me feel.
I'm trapped, and the worst part is, I'm not sure I want to escape.
I hear his footsteps in the hall and I hold my breath.
He stops outside my door, and I wait for him to knock, to open it, to come inside and finish what he started.
But he doesn't.
After a moment, the footsteps fade, and I'm left alone with my disgustingly perverted thoughts.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket over me to try to squash the nerves jolting through me, but all I can think about is the way he looked at me, the way his voice sounded when he offered to punish me.
And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, that next time he offers, I won't run.
Next time, I'll say yes.