Page 43
Story: Bound By the Bratva
When the house fully wakes, I close myself in the office and make the necessary call. The man I trust most with the track answers on the second ring. He’s been my bookie for years, knows when to ask questions and when to shut his mouth.
He clears his throat. "Morning, sir. You’ve got something for me?"
I settle into the chair behind the desk, resting one arm along the edge as I scan the ledger open beside me. "The race two nights from now. The filly my wife picked—she doesn’t win, do we understand?" I'm not being vague because I can't afford to be. Fixing races isn't uncommon, but given the stakes in this one, there can be no slip-ups or mistakes.
He pauses for a breath before responding. "Do you want a margin, or should she be overtaken outright?"
"I don't want any accidents or injuries—nothing that draws blood or raises suspicion. The loss needs to look natural. I want clean and controlled, with the filly missing first place narrowly. My entire family will be watching, Dimitri, so make it look good. We have to work with the jockey."
He exhales slowly, the sound crackling faintly through the receiver. "Understood. I’ll make the call. The jockey will get a bonus, but he needs to believe it’s just for discretion, nothing else. Right?"
"He’ll get what he’s owed." I flick the end of a pen against the desk, ticking off the plan in my head. "Just remind him. If she wins, he doesn’t get paid."
"He won’t win, Boss…"
"She," I correct, letting my tone flatten. "The horse is a she."
"Right—my mistake. She won’t win."
I rest the receiver gently on its cradle and lean back in the chair, my hand flat against the wood as I exhale through my nose and let the silence confirm it’s done. I lean back and stare at the opposite wall. A small painting of the track hangs there, one of the older ones, back when my father was still putting horses through their paces. I remember watching from the rails as a boy, learning what power meant—how it looked galloping past you in waves of muscle and dirt. That was always the point—control the race, decide the pace. Dictate the outcome.
It’s no different now.
And Anya? She doesn’t even see the reins in my hand. She thinks she’s clever. Thinks her plan is brave. But what she doesn’t understand—what she never will—is that I let her set the terms so I could set the ending.
I glance toward the window, where morning light begins to stretch across the lawn. The house is noisy now, the air full of motion. I hear Nikolai’s voice again, down the hall somewhere, echoing outward toward me as he protests his schoolwork. He wants the horses and Anya wants his studies done.
Their tug-of-war sounds familiar now, like the rhythm of something almost normal. I listen to it for a moment longer, then push back from the desk and rise. Let her think this game is still hers to play. Let her think she still has room to outmaneuver me. In two nights, all of that ends.
23
ANYA
The crystal tumbler feels solid in my hand as I pour myself three fingers of Rolan's expensive whiskey. The amber liquid burns down my throat, but not nearly as much as the doubt that settles in my chest like a stone.
Tomorrow night. One race. One chance at freedom.
I should be confident. The filly I chose has good bloodlines, decent odds, and I've seen her run. She's fast, agile, with the kind of heart that wins races when it matters most. But standing here in Rolan's study at half past eleven, watching him review security reports with that cold efficiency he applies to everything else in his life, confidence feels like a luxury I can't afford.
He's too calm. Too controlled. Even for him.
"Having second thoughts?" His voice cuts through the silence without his looking up from his papers. The lamplight catches the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead when he concentrates.
"About the race? No."
"About staying." Now he does look up, and those dark eyes find mine with laser focus. "You could just admit defeat now. Save us both the theatre tomorrow night."
The casual arrogance in his tone makes my jaw clench. "Is that what you think this is? Theatre?"
"Isn't it?" He sets down his pen and leans back in his chair, studying me with the same intensity he might use to evaluate a business proposal. "You and I both know how this ends, Anya. The only question is whether you're going to make it easy or difficult."
"You seem very certain your horse will win."
"I am." He stands, moving around the desk with that predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken despite everything. "Storm's Fury hasn't lost a race in two years. Your little filly is talented, but she's inexperienced. Green."
"Sometimes, green horses surprise people."
"Sometimes." He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, that expensive blend of cedar and something darker that I've never been able to identify. "But not tomorrow night."
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