Chapter 2

The air inside Oak Valley Private Thoroughbred Racing Club on Long Island, New York, hangs thick with a sour cocktail of cigar smoke, the stench of horse manure and the heady tang of old money.

The venue is strictly members-only, off-limits to regular folk.

Only elite clans from New York and Sicily get past the gates—the kind whose family names alone are enough to make cops look the other way.

The Rossi bloodline may have fallen from its former glory, yet our surname still carries weight within these circles.

Talia and I lean against the enclosure railings.

I've always had an uncanny knack for picking racehorses; an innate gut instinct lets me spot the fiery, wolfish streak in a steed at a single glance.

But when it comes to picking men? It took six wasted years of heartache to learn I'd backed the wrong horse entirely.

The chestnut mare is breathtaking, with glossy sleek fur and unbroken, defiant eyes. The second my palm sinks into her mane, warm living vitality seeps into my fingertips, and Talia lets out an exaggerated low whistle beside me.

 "Your eye for horses is miles better than your old man's choice of son-in-law, Elara."

I huff a dry smile and open my mouth to summon a stable hand to register the mare under my name—

The main entrance swings open.

Killian strides in with his retinue, Seraphina Moretti clinging tight to his arm, practically glued to his side with a sickly sweet simper plastered across her face.

 "Elara! What a lovely coincidence running into you here." Her gaze flicks swiftly to the black horse beside me, a greedy glint flashing briefly in her eyes before she slips back into her wide-eyed, harmless act.

 "I'm dreadfully sorry, but Killian booked the entire club exclusively to spend the race day with only me today."

She tugs his arm in a cloying, petulant whine: "Isn't that right, Killian? Defend me won't you? Otherwise Elara'll think I'm deliberately out to get her."

Killian's eyes lock onto mine, a split second of hesitation flickering across his features. In the end, he merely averts his gaze and stays mute.

Talia's already rolled her sleeves up ready to kick off an argument, and I rest a gentle hand on her forearm to hold her back. "It's fine."

Seraphina has no intention of backing down.

She lets go of Killian, marches straight over to the black stallion and reaches to undo its lead rope. "This horse is stunning, Killian. I want this one."

Talia's temper snaps completely. She surges forward to block her path, snapping: "Like hell you do! Elara spotted this horse first!"

Killian moves instantly. Pure muscle memory has him stepping sideways to shield Seraphina half a pace behind his body; the reflex is too quick, far too practised.

He lifts his gaze to mine, a sharp warning blazing in his pupils—a blatant public show of loyalty that wounds far deeper than any spoken insult.

The surrounding wealthy lords and ladies duck their heads, hiding smirks behind their gloves or wine glasses.

I restrain my furious friend, my voice eerily calm, alien even to my own ears. "Let it go."

I stand and brush imaginary dust off my skirt. "This horse isn't good enough. I don't want it anymore."

I throw Killian one fleeting glance as I speak. His Adam's apple bobs up and down like he's about to say something, only for Seraphina's tinkling laughter to drown out any unspoken words.

I turn and head for the exit, catching the weight of his conflicted stare trailing my retreat out of the corner of my eye.

Once we step past the club gates, Talia drops her playful demeanour at once and leans in to murmur quietly in my ear. "I've got solid intel. Seraphina's been meeting Moretti clan members constantly and passing secret coded letters back and forth. She's siphoning off Voss's Brooklyn harbour holdings—the core fortune your father built decades ago."

I keep walking without pause and give a subtle nod. "No rush. We bide our time till every last one of her schemes unravels."

Behind us, the club's heavy oak gate drifts slowly shut.

What I never witness is Killian rooted in the crack of the closing doorway, eyes fixed rigidly on the path I've vanished down.

His cigarette has burned down far enough to singe his skin, yet he feels no pain at all.