Page 8 of The Enforcer's Vow
I turn and walk back toward my building, feeling his eyes on me with every step. At the entrance, I glance back once. He's still watching, but there's something different in his posture now. Less predator, more man.
The apartment feels different when I return to it. Not safer, exactly, but charged with new possibilities. I've just invited danger into my life deliberately, but I've also potentially found my way to the information I need.
I sit at my kitchen table and let the full scope of what I'm attempting settle over me. Maksim Vetrov isn't just any enforcer—he's connected, important enough to be assigned to hunt for Damir personally. That means he knows things. Timelines. Plans. Maybe even why they want my brother so badly.
The money I transferred tonight was meant to fund my escape. Now I'm thinking it might fund something else entirely. If I can make Maksim trust me, if I can convince him I'm not a threat, I might learn enough to get Damir out before they find him.
It's dangerous. If he realizes I'm playing him, if he discovers who I really am, I'll end up dead or worse. But the alternative isrunning blindly into a world where I don't know the rules, don't know who's hunting us or how far their reach extends.
At least this way, I'll be close enough to the source to see them coming.
Thursday can't come soon enough.
4
MAKSIM
Ilean against the fence outside Podsolnukh Racetrack, watching the last of the evening crowd filter out through the gates. The air carries the scent of cigarettes and horse sweat, a smell you get used to when working at the tracks. I've been here forty minutes, but I don't check my watch. Patience is part of the job.
Zoya emerges at nine fifteen, her dark hair pulled back in the same neat ponytail she wore three days ago when I first questioned her. She spots me immediately—I'm not hiding—and her stride doesn't falter. There's not even a hint of surprise in her gait, which tells me she's been preparing for tonight.
"Punctual," she says when she reaches me.
"You sound surprised."
"Most men I know operate on their own schedules."
I push off from the fence and fall into step beside her. "I'm not most men."
She glances at me sideways, and I catch the hint of a smile before she turns her attention back to the street ahead. "So I'm learning."
The bar I chose is three blocks from the track—close enough to feel familiar to her, far enough to avoid the usual crowd of degenerates and bookmakers. Dim lighting, worn leather booths, the kind of place where conversations disappear into the ambient noise. Perfect for what I need to accomplish.
I hold the door open for her, and she brushes past me without acknowledgment. She offers no thank you, no feminine flutter. She's not trying to impress me with how cold she can be, which makes the job more interesting.
We claim a corner booth, and I signal the bartender for two vodkas. Zoya settles across from me, her posture relaxed but alert. She's studying me the same way I'm studying her—cataloging details, looking for weaknesses.
"You don't strike me as the dinner type," she says when the drinks arrive.
"What type do I strike you as?"
"The type who gets what he wants without buying dinner first."
I laugh, and her eyes widen slightly at the sound. She wasn't expecting that response. Good. Unpredictability creates openings.
"You're not wrong," I admit, raising my glass. "But you're worth the investment."
She doesn't blush or look away. Instead, she meets my toast and drinks without ceremony. The vodka disappears down her throat like water.
"Tell me about the track," I say, settling back in the booth. "You've been there, what, five years?"
"Four." She sets her glass down with care. "You already know that, though."
"I know the facts. I want to know what you think about it."
"What I think?" She considers this, tilting her head. "I think it's a place where desperate people make bad decisions withtheir money, and I help facilitate those decisions. It's honest work, in its way."
"Honest." I repeat the word, tasting it. "Interesting choice."
