Page 30 of Savage Reins
The track line sits half a mile beyond the Petrov property boundary, where the old racing oval used to run before the family lost the money to maintain it. Now it's just a dirt path worn into an oval, marked by rotting wooden posts and overgrown with weeds. But the shape remains, and it's where we've been timing the filly's speed work.
Vadim's black Mercedes idles in the pre-dawn darkness, exhaust visible in the cold air. He stands beside the car, smoking a cigarette and checking his watch with the impatience of a man who doesn't like being awake this early.
"You're late," he says as I approach.
"Traffic was murder," I reply dryly.
He doesn't smile. He drops the cigarette and grinds it under his heel, then turns to face me fully. In the gray light, his face looks older than his forty-five years, lines etched deep by stress and violence.
"The Karpins want a sit-down," he says without preamble.
"When?"
"Today. This afternoon."
My blood chills. Sit-downs with the Karpins never end well for anyone involved. They're not negotiators—they're collectors, and they prefer to collect in blood when money isn't available.
"What do they want?"
"Progress reports. Proof the horse is worth their patience." Vadim lights another cigarette, hands steady despite the early hour. "Dima thinks we're stalling. Thinks maybe we don't have the collateral to cover our debts."
"The horse is improving," I tell him, neglecting to reveal that I've already had a "sit down" with a few Karpins this week.
"How much?"
I think of yesterday's training session, the way the filly responded to pressure in the corners, how her stride has lengthened and smoothed over the past two weeks. "She's shaved three seconds off her time. More consistent through the turns, stronger in the final stretch."
"Three seconds." Vadim takes a long drag, considering. "Is that enough?"
"It's progress."
"Progress doesn't pay debts, Renat. Results do." His voice drops to the tone that makes grown men step backward. "The Karpins want guarantees. They want to know that when race day comes, their investment will be protected."
"She's not ready for guarantees. Horses aren't machines?—"
"I don't care what horses are." He flicks ash onto the frost-covered ground. "I care what happens if this one loses. Because if she does, we forfeit the track rights to the Karpins. The ranch burns. The family dies. All of it."
I've known the stakes from the beginning, but hearing them stated so bluntly makes my chest tight. Mira's face flashes through my mind—the determined focus she has when she's working with Rusalka. The trust in her eyes when she tended my wounds.
"Understood," I say.
"Is it?" Vadim steps closer, close enough that I can smell the tobacco on his breath. "Because from where I stand, it looks likeyou're getting attached to the locals. And attachment makes men sloppy. I heard about your little stunt with Ivan."
"I'm not attached to anything," I growl, realizing one of my men decided to tell Vadim how I laid Ivan out for what he said about Mira. Dumb fucks are going to pay for that one.
"No?" He smiles, but there's no warmth in it. "Then you won't mind if I order Boris and Anton to speed things along. Maybe light a fire under the trainer, show her what failure costs."
Every muscle in my body coils tightly. "That's not necessary."
"Then make sure it isn't. Push the horse harder. Cut training time. I don't care if you break her in the process—a broken horse is still better than no horse at all."
He drops the cigarette and grinds it out, then walks back to his car. The engine purrs to life, headlights sweeping across the abandoned track as he turns around.
"Eighteen days, Renat," he calls through the open window. "Don't make me regret trusting you with this."
The Mercedes disappears into the gray dawn, leaving me alone beside the ghost of a racing oval. I stand there for a long time, watching the sun climb over the horizon and burn away the frost. By the time I start walking back to the ranch, my decision is made.
The barn smells like horse shit—an indication we need to do some mucking. I find Mira in Rusalka's stall, running her hands down the horse's legs, checking for heat or swelling. She's dressed in her worn jeans and a flannel shirt, hair braided back and tucked under her baseball cap.
