2. Mira
MIRA
R enat's fingers close around my wrist and drag me from the stall. His grip burns through my jacket sleeve, but I don't resist. Fighting him now would be suicide.
"Talk," he says, releasing me.
I rub circulation back into my arm and meet his eyes. Dark green, calculating. This man kills for a living, and right now, I'm his assignment.
"You want to know why you shouldn't finish this tonight instead of waiting two days."
"That's right."
"Because murder doesn't solve your real problem. The Karpins still want their money. Burning down the ranch doesn't pay them back—it just makes the Vetrovs look weak."
His expression doesn't change, but he's listening.
"Your boss wants our land for the racetrack expansion," I continue. "But land covered in blood raises questions. The racing commission investigates. Other families start wondering if the Vetrovs can handle business without resorting to arson."
"And you think one horse changes that?"
"I think a winning horse changes everything."
I move toward the barn's rear exit. His footsteps follow behind me on the wooden floor. At the door, I pause.
"The injury to Vetrova's Fire wasn't negligence. Your jockey caused it. Leonid Vasiliev pushed the horse past its limits and ignored every warning sign."
"Vasiliev's ridden professionally for fifteen years."
"Vasiliev's been breaking horses for fifteen years. There's a difference." I glare at him, and he scowls.
Renat's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. Maybe he knows I'm right. Maybe he's seen Vasiliev work before.
"I told him three times during training that the horse was favoring his left foreleg," I say. "He called me paranoid. Said I didn't understand racing."
"Why didn't you refuse to continue?"
"With what leverage? Your family holds half our debt papers. We needed that training contract to keep the electricity on."
I push through the door into the afternoon sun. The back pasture spreads before us, brown grass bending in the wind. Near the far fence, a dark bay mare grazes alone.
"There…" I point toward the horse. "That's Rusalka."
"Water spirit horse. Poetic."
"She's fast in shallow water and deadly in the deep."
We cross the field, and I watch Renat study the mare. His eyes move from her hooves to her shoulders to the way she carries her head. He knows horses—that's good. It means he'll understand what I'm about to tell him.
"Three years old," I say as we approach the fence. "Sired by Northern Storm out of Midnight's Daughter. Both parents were winners. Northern Storm took the Moscow Derby in 2019."
"Training history?"
"Basic groundwork. Halter, lead, light lunging. She's never carried a rider, but she's ready. I've worked with her since she was six months old."
Rusalka lifts her head as we reach the fence, dark bay coat with white markings on her face and legs. When she approaches, I see intelligence in her brown eyes. This horse wants to run—she's waiting for someone to give her the chance.
"Small," Renat observes.
"Small horses win races. Faster off the mark, harder to box in during turns."
"Small horses break down easier."
"Not this one. Look at her bone structure—strong cannon bones, good feet, deep chest. She's built for distance, not just sprints."
I climb the fence and approach Rusalka slowly. She doesn't shy. Instead, she steps forward and nuzzles my shoulder, searching for treats. I run my hand along her neck, feeling muscle beneath her winter coat.
"How long to get her race-ready?" Renat asks.
"Thirty days if everything goes perfectly. Longer if it doesn't."
"Not encouraging."
"But honest. Training racehorses isn't factory work. Every animal is different. Some take to the track immediately. Others need weeks."
"And this one?"
I study Rusalka again. Nearly perfect proportions—long legs, compact body, powerful hindquarters. But physical ability is only half the equation. The other half lives between her ears.
"I think she'll love it. But I won't know until I get her on the track."
Renat climbs over the fence and approaches the mare. She watches him carefully but doesn't retreat. When he extends his hand, she sniffs his fingers, then allows him to stroke her nose.
"Friendly," he notes.
"Confident. There's a difference."
"Explain."
"Friendly horses seek approval. They want to please everyone and avoid conflict. Confident horses assess situations and make decisions. They'll work with you if they trust you, but they won't be bullied."
"Which type wins races?"
"Confident ones. Every time."
We stand watching Rusalka graze for a moment as the sun drops toward the horizon, and an evening chill creeps into the air. Renat is quiet, like he's thinking, and I hear traffic rumbling on the road that separates our land from the Vetrov racetrack.
"Tell me about facilities," Renat says.
"What about them?"
"Training track, starting gate, timing equipment. What do you have to work with?"
My stomach clenches. This is where my pitch gets weaker.
"Half-mile dirt track behind the main barn. No timing system, but I can clock runs with a stopwatch. The starting gate is old but functional—we'll need to repair padding and replace springs."
"Jockey?"
"I'll ride her myself."
His eyebrows rise. "You're qualified?"
"I've ridden since I was six. I know Rusalka better than any outside jockey would. And we can't afford to hire someone."
"Professional races require licensed jockeys."
"Then you pick. But I'm not putting Leonid Vasiliev on my horse again." I'm testing him, and so far, he isn’t pushing back too hard. I'm not sure if it's my charm or if he's just really wanting to impress his boss, but it seems like he might go for it.
Renat processes this without comment. I can't read his expression, which makes me nervous.
"Training schedule?" he asks.
"You know nothing of training a race horse, so just let me worry about that.
" My eyes flick up to his face but he's staring at the mare.
He's a handsome man, but stern. But good looks don't equate to mercy or good business sense, either.
I will really have to sell this if I want to save my father's ranch.
When he moves, I follow. We head back toward the barn as darkness settles over the ranch. The main building looks smaller in twilight, its weathered siding and patched roof obvious even from the distance. I know Renat sees the decay, the financial desperation marking every corner of our property.
"One more question," he says at the barn door.
"What?"
"Why should I believe you can pull this off? Your family's struggled for years. Your facilities are outdated. You're asking me to bet against direct orders from my superior."
His question is the one I've dreaded. Because truthfully, I'm not sure I can do this. Training a racehorse in thirty days is borderline impossible under ideal circumstances. Doing it with limited resources and a gun to my head makes it nearly suicidal.
But the alternative is watching everything I love burn.
"Because I don't have a choice," I say. "And people without choices find ways to do impossible things."
He stares at me in the fading light like he's examining me, scrutinizing my ability, testing my resolve, then he says, "Thirty days. I'll stay here to monitor progress. If the horse isn't ready or if you try to run, the deal's off."
"Understood."
"We start tomorrow at dawn."
He walks away without another word as footsteps fade into darkness. I watch until I can't see him, then turn toward the barn where Batya still stands in the same spot Vadim left him.
Batya looks older than his sixty-three years. Shoulders hunched, face drawn with exhaustion and fear. When I approach, he doesn't look up.
" Batya ?"
His head rises slowly. I see tears on his cheeks. In all my years, I've never seen my father cry. Not when Mamochka died. Not when the bank threatened foreclosure. Not when we sold half the breeding stock to pay feed bills.
But tonight, in this barn that's been his life's work, Yuri Petrov weeps.
"We should go," he says quietly. "Pack what we can carry. Take the truck and trailer. Leave tonight." He clasps my hands, and his eyes plead with me to heed him.
"No."
"Mira, these people don't honor deals. They take what they want and kill anyone who interferes."
"Maybe. But running won't save us. They'll find us eventually. Then we'll have nothing."
I cross to him and wrap my arms around his chest. His body is thin now, worn by years of stress and poor eating. But his arms still rise to hold me, still carry the strength that taught me to ride and work and fight.
"This is our home," I whisper against his shirt. " Mamochka's wedding China is still in the kitchen. Her garden tools hang in the shed. My first blue ribbon is pinned above your desk."
"Those are things, little bird."
"No. They're proof we existed here. That we built something worth keeping." I step back and look into his brown eyes and I see defeat there, resignation, but I also see despair. This is hurting him. He doesn't want to give up either, and I know I can convince him to let me try.
"I can do this, Batya . I can train Rusalka to win."
He searches my face, then sighs deeply.
"The mare needs new shoes," he says finally. "And that saddle's cinch is coming apart. We'll need to replace it before you start riding her."
Relief floods through me so suddenly, my knees almost buckle. He's not giving up yet.
"We'll start early tomorrow," I say.
"At dawn… We have work to do."
We move through the barn together, checking water buckets and feed bins from habit. The routine feels normal, but everything has changed. The enforcer's words echo. Thirty days. The timeline feels both generous and impossibly short.
"The east paddock fence needs repair," Batya says, voice steadier now. "Two posts are rotting through. If Rusalka spooks during training and hits that section, she could get hurt."
"I'll fix it tomorrow morning before we start with her."
"The track needs dragging too. the surface is too hard. She needs good footing if we're going to push her speed."
I nod, mentally adding items to an already overwhelming list. Thirty days to transform an untrained mare into a racehorse. Thirty days to save our lives.
" Batya , what if I can't do this?"
He stops and faces me in the dim light filtering through the barn windows. His features look carved from stone. This is the man who taught me to ride before I could tie my shoes. Who stayed up all night with sick horses. Who never backed down from a fight about family.
"You remember when you were twelve and Midnight's Daughter got colic?"
"Of course."
"Three days of walking her. Three days forcing her to move when all she wanted was to lie down and die. Dr. Kozlov said we should put her down. Said the odds were too long."
"But we didn't give up."
"No. And on the fourth morning, she passed the blockage. Lived another eight years. Had four foals, including Rusalka."
He touches my cheek with one weathered hand. "You have your mother's stubbornness and my knowledge of horses. If anyone can do this, it's you."
His faith settles on my shoulders. I want to live up to it, but I know the costs of failure. Not just death, but destruction of everything three generations of Petrovs built on this land.
"What about the enforcer? Renat. Can we trust him?"
Batya considers this. "He could have killed us both tonight. Instead, he listened. That means something."
"Or it means he's playing games."
"Maybe. But I saw how he looked at Rusalka. He knows horses. He understands what we're trying to do."
"That doesn't mean he'll honor the deal if his boss changes his mind."
"No. But it's better than no chance at all."
We finish rounds and head toward the house. The kitchen light glows yellow in the darkness, and I see Mama's curtains hanging in the window. She made them the summer before she died, stitching tiny flowers along edges while recovering from her first round of chemotherapy.
"I miss her," I say suddenly.
"Every day."
"She would have hated this. The threats, the violence. She wanted us to sell the ranch after she died, move somewhere safe."
"Your mother was practical. But she understood legacy. She knew this place was in your blood."
We climb the porch steps, and Batya pauses with his hand on the door handle. "Mira, if this goes bad…"
"It won't."
"If it does, I want you to know I'm proud of you. Proud of the woman you've become. Your mother would be too."
The words hit harder than any Mafia threat. Because I know he means them, and tomorrow might be our last normal conversation.
"I love you, Batya ."
"I love you too, little bird."