Scamming The Devil

IRINA VOLKOV

The wire transfer notification chimed on my phone at exactly 3:09PM.

Fifty thousand dollars. Clean. Untraceable. So beautiful.

My gaze was fixed on the screen in the dimly lit corner of the cafe, my fingers wrapped around my coffee that had lost its warmth an hour prior. The scene was filled with Moscow's young professionals, absorbed in their laptops and pricey lattes, completely unaware that a con artist was present, pilfering bank accounts with merely a smartphone and a fabricated tale.

Yeah-and that's me.

Fifty thousand was good. Better than good. It just brought my running total to four hundred and sixty-three thousand dollars over the past twenty-two months.

Thirty-seven thousand left. Phew!

Thirty-seven thousand, and I'll be free. The debt Viktor, my father, had saddled me with before I escaped his house and his fists would finally be paid. The loan sharks who have been watching me will have their blood money. And I, Irina Volkov, or whatever name I'm choosing next, will disappear into a life where no one owns me. No one controls me. No one can hurt me.

I allowed myself one small smile before closing the banking app and deleting it from my phone. Rule number seven: Never keep evidence.

My phone buzzed with a new message. I opened the encrypted chat app, different from the one I'd just used and different from the one I'd use tomorrow, and felt my pulse quicken.

My last message to my mark was,

Anastasia: Got it. Thank you, Damien. You're a lifesaver.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Damien Romanov. My last mark. The name Anastasia Sokolova isn't mine. Rule number two: No real names.

It's just my character name in a play, performing for an audience of one.

But Damien was quite different from the others.

In the three months since I made him my mark, something had shifted. His messages came at odd hours...3 AM, when I imagined him unable to sleep, reaching for his phone in the darkness. He asked questions that had nothing to do with money. What books did I read? What did I think about when I looked at the stars? If I could go anywhere in the world, where would I choose?

Prague, of course.

And yes, I'd answered because that was the game. To build intimacy. Create connections. Make my mark believe the fucking fantasy.

But sometimes, late at night in my tiny apartment with its peeling wallpaper and the sound of my stupid neighbor's arguments bleeding through the walls, I found myself thinking about his questions. Answering them honestly. Well...at least to myself.

It's dangerous. Stupid. Yeah, I know.

Damien Romanov: Always happy to help. I hope your sister's surgery goes well.

My lips curved into a smile. There was no sister. No surgery.

Just a carefully constructed emergency that had required immediate funds. I had perfected the plan, which is to create urgency, appeal to emotion, and make the mark feel like a hero for helping.

And then, boom-they fall into your trap.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. I watched them, an uncomfortable twist in my chest.

Guilt, maybe. Or something worse, regret. It can't be.

Damien Romanov: I'd like to meet you.

My heart stopped.

Rule number three, the most important rule, the rule I fight myself hard not to break: Never meet in person.

My fingers trembled as I typed and deleted, typed and deleted. I should say no. All I need is to disappear right now, burn Anastasia's identity and move. I have almost enough money. I could target someone else for the final thirty-seven thousand.

Another message dropped.

Damien Romanov: I know this is sudden. But I've been thinking about you. A lot. Too much, maybe. I'd like to take you to dinner. Just dinner. No pressure.

Huh huh. A very strict NO!

Then, before I could respond:

Damien Romanov: I'm working on a business deal. Real estate investment. Three hundred thousand euros. I could use a partner. Someone I trust. We could discuss it over dinner?

Okay, three hundred thousand euros. Three hundred thous....

That is... more than what I needed. Jeez! More than I'd dared to hope for. With that kind of money, I could pay off the debt and have enough to start over. Really start over.

New city, new country, new life.

This is too good. Too perfect. To easy.

Which also means It's probably too dangerous.

But thirty-seven thousand is a small money compared to three hundred thousand.

Okay, One meeting. One dinner. One final con, and I'd be free forever.

I can do this.

I looked around the café. A young mother wrestled a toddler into a high chair. A businessman shouted into his phone about some quarterly reports. An old man fed biscuits to his dog under the table.

Normal people, living normal lives. The kind of life I never had. The kind of life Viktor had stolen from me when he dragged my mother to the altar and then, after the cancer took her, transferred his gambling debts onto a sixteen-year-old girl's shoulders.

I just wanted normal. Wanted it so badly it made my chest ache.

And this three hundred thousand euros would buy me that life.

My fingers moved before my brain could catch up:

Anastasia: Sure! I'd love to. When?

The response came immediately:

Damien Romanov: Friday. 8 PM. I'll send you the address now. Wear something beautiful, Lyubimaya.

Did he just call me his beloved?

Then:

Damien Romanov: I can't wait to finally see you, Anastasia.

I stared at the message for a long moment. Then closed the app, gathered my things, and walked out of the café into the gray Moscow afternoon.

I have three days to prepare. Three days to create the perfect version of Anastasia Sokolova. Three days to plan my exit strategy down to the last detail.

Three days until I break my most important rule.

*************************************************************************

NIKOLAI DRAGUNOV

In my top-floor office with a view of Moscow's financial district, I placed my phone on the desk and reclined in my leather chair. The city stretched out beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows like a vast domain, which, in many respects, it truly was.

"She agreed," I said.

Dmitri Kozlov looked up from the financial reports he had been reviewing. The Brigadier of the Dragunov Bratva was a mountain of a man, all muscle and scar tissue, yet his gaze was piercing as he assessed me.

"The girl? The one who's been scamming you for three months?"

"Yeah. She has a name. Anasta-Irina Volkov. She has no idea I knew her real name. What's the fun if I spill that out anyway." My lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "And she thinks I'm some Damien Romanov, a fucking lonely businessman with more money than sense."

Dmitri frowned. "I still don't understand why you let her take the money. Fifty thousand today alone. Four hundred and sixty-three thousand total. That's not pocket change,Kolya."

Kolya. A childhood nickname he calls me and gets away with it.

"No," I agreed, my gaze distant. "It's not."

I'd discovered her six months ago, quite by accident. One of my lower-level associates had mentioned being scammed by a woman online. The man had been embarrassed, ashamed, wanted to hide his mistake. But I, Nikolas had been curious.

I had my people trace her digital footprint. It had taken weeks, she was good, exceptionally good, but eventually I found her. Irina Volkov, twenty-four years old, living in a rundown apartment in the Tekstilshchiki district. No criminal record. No family except a stepfather she'd fled two years ago. And a debt of five hundred thousand dollars to some particularly nasty loan sharks.

A normal man would have gone to the police. I wasn't a normal man. I was Nikolai Dragunnov.

Instead, I created a profile. Damien Romanov, successful but lonely, looking for connection. I'd made myself the perfect mark, wealthy enough to be worth her time, vulnerable enough to seem safe.

And then I waited for her to find me.

She had, within a week.

"You know, you're playing a dangerous game," Dmitri said. This is not the first time he'd said that. "What if she runs? What if she disappears after Friday?"

"She won't." My voice laced with certainty. "I'm offering her three hundred thousand euros. That's more than enough to pay off her debt and start over. She'll come. And then..." I paused, considering. "Then we'll see what happens."

"And if she tries to scam you at dinner?"

I smiled - a cold thing, sharp as winter frost. "Then I'll let her. One more time. I want to see how far she'll go. How well she can lie to my face. I want to see her face."

"You're enjoying this," Dmitri observed.

I considered the accusation. Actually, in my world, everything was predictable. My enemies moved in expected patterns. My allies played their parts. The business operated smoothly, with violence serving as just another instrument, while women were viewed as either assets or expendable.

But Irina Volkov? She was chaos wrapped in intelligence. Every message from her was a lie. Meticulously crafted, yet somehow the conversations I had with her had been the most honest ones I'd had in years. She was stealing from me, yes, but she was also the first person in a decade to surprise me.

To make me feel.

"Yes," I admitted. "I am."

"And after dinner? What's next after you've had your fun?"

I turned to look at my second in command. "After dinner, Dmitri, I'm going to make sure Irina Volkov understands that you can't con the king of the underworld."

"You're going to kill her?" There was no judgment in Dmitri's voice, just curiosity.

"No. I'm going to keep her."

Dmitri stared at me for a long moment. Then he shook his head and returned to his reports, muttering something in Russian that I chose to ignore.

I turned back to the window, my reflection ghosting over the city below. In my pocket, my phone buzzed with another message from Irina, no, from Anastasia.

Thanking me again. Expressing her excitement about Friday.

All lies, of course.

But that was fine. I'd been lying too.

Two liars circling each other. But I held all the cards. I always win in the end.

Always.

IRINA VOLKOV

The apartment building in Tekstilshchiki looked worse in daylight than it did at night. Yeah.

Crumbling concrete, rust stained walls, windows that was covered with mismatched curtains or cardboard. I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, the elevator had been broken for six fucking months and the landlord hasn't done anything to it.

Try not to breathe too deeply, the stairwell smelled like cigarettes, boiled cabbage, and desperation.

God!

Irina, this is temporary, okay? Everything is temporary. In less than a week, if Friday went according to the plan, I will never see this place again.

I let out a breath.

I unlocked three separate deadbolts-don't ask me why-before pushing the door to apartment 412. The space was barely bigger than a prison cell. One room that served as a bedroom, living room, and office, plus a bathroom so small that I'd have to squeeze past the toilet to reach the shower. My room.

Or at least, I rented it under a fake name that can't be traced back to my real identity.

I dropped my bag on the narrow bed and immediately went to the window, checking the street below. No unfamiliar cars. No men loitering on corners. No one who looked like they might be watching.

Paranoid? Yeah, maybe. But paranoia had kept me alive for two years.

I pulled out my laptop. Encrypted, purchased with cash, registered to yet another fake identity and opened my secure folder. Inside were dozens of documents: fake passports, driver's licenses, bank accounts in five different names. My exit strategy, meticulously planned over months.

After Friday, Irina Volkov would cease to exist. Anastasis Sokolova would disappear into the digital ether. And someone new, I was thinking Elena Petrova, art gallery owner from Prague would board a train west and never look back.

But first, I needed to prepare for the meeting. With Damien Romanov.

I pulled up the file I'd compiled on him. It wasn't much. I guess he's a very private person.

The profile said he was thirty-two, worked in import/export, had studied economics at Moscow State University. Claimed to live in Arbat, one of the city's more affluent districts.

The profile picture showed a man with dark hair and sharp features, but it was slightly blurred, taken from a distance. Professional, but not too professional. Wealthy, but not pretentious. Lonely, but not desperate.

The perfect mark.

So why did my instincts scream that something was off?

I'd run his information through every database I could access. No criminal record. Clean. No red flags-carpet. His story checked out.

Okay, this is more suspicious. In my experience, everyone had secret. Everyone had something that didn't quite add up. The fact that Damien Romanov appeared squeaky clean-not that I didn't want him to-either meant he was exactly what he claimed to be, or he was very, very good at hiding who he really was.

M phone buzzed. I grabbed it, heart racing, but it was just Katya.

Katya: Coffee tomorrow? I have drama. SO MUCH DRAMA.

I smiled. Katya was the closest thing I had to a real friend, which was dangerous, why? Because real friends asked questions. Real friends wanted to know where you lived, what you did for work, why you never seemed to be in the place twice.

But Katya also made me feel human. Made me remember that was version of life where people didn't lie about everything, where trust wasn't a weapon, where friendship didn't require three layers of false identity.

Me: Can't tomorrow. Soon though? Miss you.

Katya: You're always busy. What are you, a spy?

If only Katya knew how close to the truth that joke was.

I set the phone aside and returned to my laptop. I had work to do. The con with Alexei required perfect execution. One slip, one inconsistency in my story, and the whole thing could collapse.

No, I don't want that to fucking happen.

I reviewed Anastasia Sokolova's entire history: childhood in Saint Petersburg, move to Moscow for university, worked as a freelance graphic designer, parents deceased, no siblings. It was a sad story, but not too sad. Vulnerable enough to justify needing help, strong enough to seem worth investing in.

I'd worn this identity so long it almost felt real.

A sharp knock on the door made me freeze.

Nobody knocked on my door. Nobody knew where I lived. I made sure of that. Even Katya thought she lived in Khamovniki, on the other side of the city.

My hand moved to the knife I kept in my desk drawer. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached the door silently, checking the peephole.

A man stood in the hallway. Expensive suit, sharp eyes, the kind of face that suggested violence was just a career choice away. Behind him, I could see another man, equally well-dressed, equally dangerous.

I shivered.

"Irina Volkov," the man said, his voice carrying through the thin door. "We know you're in there. We just want to talk."

I didn't move. Didn't even dared to breathe.

"It's about your debt. Sergei sent us to you."

Sergei. That son of a bitch loan shark who took over Viktor's gambling debts. The man who'd made it very clear two years ago that I now owed him five hundred thousand dollars, and he didn't care how I'm going to get it. He just wanted his money.

I'd been paying Every month, like clockwork, I sent the wire transfers anonymously. I was almost done.

How the fuck did they find me?

"I know you've been making payments," the man continued. "Sergei appreciates that. But he'd like to meet with you. Discuss terms. You know he's a reasonable man."

Reasonable my ass. Right. I had seen what Sergei's "reasonable" looked like. A girl who'd tried to run from her debt ended up in the Moskva River with concrete blocks tied to the ankles. I will not be next.

"We'll be back," the man said when I didn't respond. "Think about it. Sergei is losing patience. He'd rather have you as a willing partner than...well. Let's not think about the alternative."

Footsteps retreated down the hall. I waited five full minutes before moving, my entire body shaking.

They found me. After two years of careful anonymity, somehow, they'd found me.

I'm running out of time. I need the courage to wait until Friday. I need to disappear now. Forget the three hundred thousand from Damien. I'd have to make do with what I had, find another way to pay off the remaining debt remotely, from another country, another identity.

I was already pulling clothes from the closet when my phone buzzed again.

Damien Romanov: I've been thinking about you all day. Can't wait for Friday.

Then:

Damien Romanov: Actually, I have a surprise. The investment opportunity I mentioned? The paperwork came through early. I can have the money ready by tomorrow if you're available to meet.

I stared at the message, my mind racing.

Tomorrow. Not Friday. Tomorrow.

Three hundred thousand euros. Enough to pay off Sergei completely and still have money left over to start fresh. To truly disappear. Pooff!

Jeez! This guy is Godsent! An angel in disguise.

But it meant meeting him with almost no preparation. Meant taking a massive risk.

Every instinct I had screamed at me to run. To grab my go-bag and disappear into the Moscow crowds right now, this second, before Sergei's men came back.

But every practical bone in my body knew the truth: thirty-seven thousand dollars wouldn't be enough. Even if I made it to Prague or Berlin or London, Sergei would find me eventually. Men like him always did. And then I'd pay a much higher price than money.

This was my only chance.

One meeting. One con. One last dance with a man I'd never seen in person.

And then freedom. Real freedom.

My fingers moved across the screen:

Anastasia: Tomorrow works perfectly. Where should we meet?

The response was almost instant:

Damien Romanov: Restaurant Turandot. 7 PM. I'll make a reservation under my name. Dress code is formal. I want to see you at your most beautiful, princess.

Turandot. One of Moscow's most expensive restaurants. Ornate, luxurious, very public. That was good, public meant safe. Public meant I could walk away if something felt wrong.

Except I didn't own anything formal. What I had was just pratical, something forgettable and designed to help me blend into crowds. I'd need to buy a dress. Shoes. Makeup.

It's an investment. The last investment. After tomorrow night, I'd never I'd never have to worry about money again.

Anastasia: I'll be there. Can't wait to finally meet you in person.

I set down my phone and looked around my tiny apartment. Tomorrow night, I'd walk out of this fucking place and never come back.

Just on more lie to tell. One more performance to give.

And then, Irina Volkov and Anastasia would cease to exist.

IRINA VOLKOV

The next morning, I took the metro to Tverskaya and found a secondhand boutique that catered to women who needed to look expensive without actually being expensive. The owner, a rail thin woman with black hair and calculating eyes, sized me up immediately.

"Special occasion?" she asked in Russian.

I nodded. "Dinner. Somewhere nice." I kept my voice neutral, but the woman's eyes sparkled with understanding.

"Rich boyfriend?"

"Something like that."

She disappeared into the back and returned with three dresses. All designer labels, all slightly worn butt beautifully maintained. The kind of dresses that whispered wealth without shouting it.

I chose a midnight blue dress with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. Elegant. Sophisticated. The king of thing my character, Anastasia Sokolova would wear. It cost more than I wanted to spend, but when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw exactly what I needed to see. A woman worth investing in.

A woman worth three hundred thousand euros.

Shoes and a small clutch bag came next, then a stop at a department store for the makeup. By the time I returned to my apartment, the afternnon sun was already fading, and my nerves were wound tight as piano wire.

I spent an hour getting ready, transforming myself into Anastasia. Hair swept up in an elegant chignon. Makeup subtle but flawless. The dress fit perfectly, and the heels.

God, I hated heels, they made my legs look longer than they actually were.

It's just for today. Yeah.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

Perfect. So fucking perfect.

I packed my go-bag and hid it in the closet, ready to grab the moment I returned. Passport, cash, change of clothes, laptop. Everything I needed to disappear.

At 6:30 PM, I called a taxi. Not Uber, too traceable. A regular Moscow cab that I paid for in cash.

The drive to Tverskoy Boulevard took twenty minutes through evening traffic. I watched the city scroll past my window. The lights, the crowds, the endless sprawl of concrete and ambition. Two years I'd lived here as a ghost. After tonight, I'd be a ghost somewhere else.

Restaurant Turandot was exactly as opulent as its reputation suggested. Crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, waiters in crisp white shirts moving like synchronized dancers. I felt suddenly, acutely aware that I didn't belong here.

But I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and walked in like I owned the place.

Rule number one: Fake it until you make it.

"Good evening," I said to the maître d' in perfect Russian. "I have a reservation. Under Romanov."

The man checked his list and nodded. "Of course. Mr. Romanov is already seated. This way, please."

My heart began to hammer. This was it. Three months of messages, filled with carefully constructed lies and late-night conversations that had felt too real, all leading to this moment.

Calm down, Irina. It will soon be over.

The maître d' led me through the main dining room, past tables filled with Moscow's elite, oligarchs and their mistresses, businessmen sealing deals over wine that cost more than most people's monthly salary. Eyes followed me. I ignored them.

We stopped at a table in a semi-private alcove. A man sat with his back to me, broad-shouldered in an expensive charcoal suit. Dark hair cut short. Even from behind, he radiated a kind of controlled power that made my stomach flip.

"Your guest, Mr. Romanov," the maître d' announced.

The man stood and turned.

Fuck me.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was... not what I expected. The profile picture hadn't done him justice. He was tall, easily six-foot-three, with sharp Slavic features and ice-blue eyes that seemed to look right through me. Or...my soul.

Handsome, yes, but in a way that was almost intimidating. Like a blade honed to lethal perfection.

His eyes-cold, calculating was what made me stopped. The eyes of someone who saw too much.

For one terrible moment, I wanted to run. No need for the real estate blah blah and just run for dear life.

Then he smiled, and the coldness melted into something warmer. Almost shy.

"Anastasia," he said, and his voice was exactly as I remembered from their audio calls. Deep, slightly accented. "You're even more beautiful than your pictures."

I forced myself to smile, to step forward, to take the hand he offered. His grip was firm, warm, and sent an unexpected shiver up my arm.

Dear God.

"Damien," I said, and was proud that my voice didn't shake. "It's so good to finally meet you in person."

"Please, sit." He pulled out my chair with the kind of old-world courtesy that should have felt out of place but somehow didn't.

As I sat, I caught sight of two men seated at a nearby table. Both wore suits. Both had the kind of alert stillness that marked them as either bodyguards or something worse.

I looked at Damien questioningly.

"Security," he said with an apologetic shrug. "I know it seems excessive, but in my line of work, you can't be too careful. I hope they don't make you uncomfortable."

Ah. Damn.

"Not at all," I lied smoothly. "I understand completely."

Inside, warning bells were screaming. Damn-what kind of "import-export" businessman needed armed security?

I kept my smile fixed, my body language open and relaxed.

"Would you like wine?" Damien asked. "I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of Château Margaux. I remember you mentioning you preferred red."

He remembered. Of course he did. It was a detail my character, Anastasia had mentioned in passing two months ago. The fact that he'd retained it, that he'd thought to order it. It was exactly the kind of gesture that would make a real woman's heart flutter.

Good job Damien.

I wasn't a real woman. Not tonight. Tonight I was Anastasia, and Anastasia would be charmed.

"That's very thoughtful," I said warmly. "Thank you."

The waiter appeared, poured the wine with practice elegance, and disappeared. Alexei raised his glass.

"To new beginnings," he said, his ice-blue eyes locked on mine.

"To new beginnings," I echoed, touching my glass with his.