Chapter 13 Katya
KATYA
The card room reeks of cigar smoke and overpowering men's cologne.
I push through the door at seven thirty, right on time, and the bartender barely glances up.
Three men are already seated at the table.
One is shuffling cards with movements so smooth I can tell he's been doing this a long time.
Another leans back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The third watches me enter with eyes tracking my movement across the room.
He's probably checking me out.
This tiny pencil skirt and clingy tank top are dreadful.
They make me look like a floozy, but if it helps sell the package, then whatever.
I'm here to get connected and get the fuck out.
Nothing more.
And if I can't do this right, I'll be a prisoner forever.
I take the seat Dimitri told me to take, between the courier and the neutral player.
The felt is sticky under my palms as I slide some cash across the table, being sure to flick a nervous glance around the room.
The wire taped between my tits tickles, but I don’t dare touch it and draw attention.
"New face," the man with the cigarette says.
His voice is gruff, worn down by years of smoke and shouting.
It reminds me of my grandfather in Perm, but that was years ago.
He's probably dead by now.
"New to you," I say, keeping my tone a bit jittery.
The better I sell this, the more likely the Radich crew is to pick me up.
He smirks but doesn’t press, and our final man stumbles in, a bit tipsy from what I can tell.
He collapses into his chair and drops his cash for buy-in before the dealer starts distributing cards and chips.
I pick mine up slowly, counting under my breath.
It's a habit I've perfected over the past two days.
Loud enough to be noticed.
Quiet enough to seem unconscious.
The game moves quickly.
I win the first hand with a pair of tens, then lose the next three in a row.
My pile of chips dwindles.
I curse under my breath, loud enough for the table to hear.
"Rough night," one of the Radich soldiers says.
He's younger than the others, his face smooth and unlined.
He's been checking me out for the past ten minutes solid and thinks he's being smooth about it.
But I've been reading him.
He's a sleaze and a half.
"Every night's rough when your boss takes half your cut," I mutter, stacking my remaining chips.
The man with the cigarette leans forward.
"Half? That's steep."
"Tell me about it." I deal myself back in, watching the cards.
"But what am I going to do? Walk away? He'd break my hands before I made it to the door."
The courier exchanges a glance with the man across from him—the smoker.
I keep my eyes on my cards, pretending not to notice.
"You work for Vetrov?" the smoker asks, and I've hooked them.
It gives me a tiny rush.
I’m not feeling nearly as nervous about this time around as I was before.
Maybe it's the wire, or maybe it's because I know Dimitri's promised to have men ready and waiting to rush in at my command.
Or maybe I'm adjusting to this life and it's not as bad as I feared.
I nod, not looking up.
"Runner. Errands. Deliveries. Whatever he needs."
"And he takes half."
"Every fucking time."
I throw down two cards, draw two more.
A losing hand.
I fold before the betting gets serious.
"I'm bleeding money. Between him and the debts I owe, I'll never get ahead."
The smoker leans back, studying me.
"Maybe you are working for the wrong man."
I glance up, meeting his eyes.
"And who's the right man?"
This is where I have to sell it. I let some of that "anxiety" energy creep up.
I'm not actually feeling nervous, but I pretend I am.
Licking my lips, rubbing my empty hand on my skirt.
I blink a lot, glance around, let my breathing show more.
He smiles a crooked, sinister expression that disgusts me.
"Depends on what you are good at."
I hold his gaze for a moment, then look back at my cards.
"I'm good at a lot of things. But I don't work for free."
"No one's asking you to."
He flicks ash from his cigarette onto the floor.
"But if you're interested in making real money, you should talk to me after the game."
I nod, careful not to seem too eager.
"Maybe I will."
The game continues.
I lose more than I win, but I stay in long enough to seem committed.
When the final hand is dealt, I fold early and push back from the table.
"I'm done," I say, standing.
"This isn't my night."
I rub my hands down the skirt again and sigh hard, trying to look as defeated and upset as I can, but I'm not feeling that way at all.
I'm getting a rush of adrenaline at the idea of conning this loser any second.
The smoker stands as well.
"Walk with me."
I follow him out through the side door, into the alley behind the club.
The air is chilly against my skin and I hug my arms over my belly to try to stay a bit warmer.
He lights another cigarette, taking a long drag before speaking.
"My name is Daniil," he says.
"I work for people who pay better than Vetrov."
"Good for you."
I hug myself tighter, leaning against the wall.
"What does that have to do with me?"
"You said you're good at a lot of things. I need someone to run an errand. It's a simple job. Drop an envelope at a boxing gym, report back who opens the door. You do that, I pay you two thousand rubles. No cut. No questions."
I raise an eyebrow and feign disinterest.
I keep hearing Dimitri's scolding in my head over and over.
We practiced this so much.
"That's it?"
"That's it." He pulls an envelope from his jacket, holding it out.
"The address is written on the front. You go now. You hand the envelope to whoever answers, then you leave and call me and tell me who it was. Easy money."
I take the envelope, turning it over in my hands.
The address is scrawled in black ink.
A gym in Khamovniki not far from here.
"What if I don't want to risk it?"
He shrugs.
"Then you keep bleeding money for Vetrov. Your choice."
I tuck the envelope into my jacket.
"I'll do it."
"Good."
He takes another drag from his cigarette.
"Call this number when it's done."
He hands me a card with a phone number written on it.
"Don't fuck this up."
"Christ, buddy, I won't," I snarl as he scowls at me.
He nods, then turns and walks back into the club.
I stay in the alley for a moment, letting the cold air clear my head.
Then I start walking toward the street, where Gavriil is waiting three blocks away in a black sedan.
He's not fond of my "task" but he knows this is for Dimitri, so he doesn't protest.
The gym is tucked between a butcher shop and a repair garage, its windows fogged with condensation.
I knock on the door at exactly ten o'clock.
A voice inside beckons me, and with a glance back at Gavriil, who's seated in the car, I push the door open and enter.
The old gym is smelly, like dirty socks and sweat, and an older man sits behind the front desk, his eyes on a newspaper.
He looks up when I enter.
"Help you?" he asks.
I hold out the envelope.
"Delivery."
He takes it without a word, setting it on the desk, and I memorize his face—broad, weathered, a scar running down his left cheek—and walk out of the gym.
There's no way this is the only thing the Radich crew wants from me.
I know it's some sort of test, but I intend to pass it.
When I head back out, Gavriil is parked a block away, engine running.
I slide into the passenger seat and buckle in, still memorizing the old man's face in my mind.
His name tag read Carl but he didn't look like a Carl at all.
Still, I will do what Daniil wanted and hopefully, it will lead me to the answers Dimitri needs.
"Done?" Gavriil asks.
"Done."
He drives me back to Dimitri's apartment without another word, and I call Daniil from a burner phone Dimitri gave me, reporting that an older man with graying hair took the envelope.
He's satisfied with that intel and tells me to answer my phone if he calls.
He will tell me when and where to meet for my payment.
I know it can't be that simple, but I don't know this world as well as Dimitri does.
I'll have to ask his opinion on what to do.
When we arrive at Dimitri's apartment, he's waiting for me in the living room.
His arms are crossed, and a bottle of vodka is perched on the coffee table in front of him.
"You did well," he says as I slip out of the ridiculous heels he made me wear.
My feet are sore, my body still chilled.
"I did what you told me to do."
"You did more than that."
He relaxes a little, stretching his arms across the back of the couch, his eyes scanning my face.
"You're better than I expected."
I sit, keeping space between us.
"Does that mean I get a reward?"
I ask with a bit of snark in my tone, and instantly, I wonder if it was the right move.
His eyes flick to mine, dark and amused.
"What kind of reward are you asking for?"
I don’t answer.
My pulse is already racing, my body responding to the way he is looking at me.
He leans back, studying me.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Katya. Offering to help me. Volunteering for more work. That is not the behavior of someone who wants to leave."
"I want to leave," I say quickly.
"I want my freedom. That's the deal."
"Is it?" He tilts his head.
"Because from where I am sitting, you're getting too comfortable. You're starting to care about this operation. About proving yourself to me."
"I'm not," I say defensively, yanking the wire out of my top and throwing it onto the table.
It clunks and slides, almost falling off the edge on the other side.
"You are." He stands and takes a step toward me.
"And that terrifies you."
I don't move at first, uncertain about his motives.
Yesterday was so hot, the way he pinned me to the wall and fingered me.
And I knew my body was ready.
I was so wet. But he backed off, refused to take it.
It wasn't a test.
I wasn't trying to push him.
Things just escalated.
But I can't stop thinking about it.
I wanted him.
"You don’t know what you're talking about."