9. Renat
RENAT
T he farrier works with steady hands, fitting the new shoe to the mare's right front hoof. She stands patiently while he files and shapes the metal, ears flicking at the sound of each rasp. The smells of hot iron and hoof shavings fill the barn and I wrinkle my nose at the acrid scents.
"She's got good feet," the old man says, running his thumb along the edge of the shoe. "Strong walls, no cracks. This one's built to run."
I nod, watching him work. The mare's been making progress under Mira's training—faster times, cleaner turns, better focus.
She might actually have a chance when race day comes.
Might be enough to save this place. But I'm no trainer or jockey.
I have to wait alongside everyone else to see how this turns out.
I back away a step and catch a noise outside the barn.
The sound of tires on gravel draws my attention.
Through the barn door, I see a black truck rolling down the drive.
It's not one of ours either. The engine cuts, and two men climb out—thick-set, wearing leather jackets despite the afternoon sun.
I recognize the walk, the way they scan the property before moving.
They're Karpin soldiers, probably here to check in on how our "retribution" is going.
My hand moves instinctively to the knife at my belt as they approach the barn. The farrier looks up, hammer frozen mid-swing.
"You can go," I tell him quietly.
He doesn't argue. His eyes flick up at our guests arriving, and his face blanches. Then he packs his tools quickly and leads his own horse toward the door, giving the newcomers a wide berth. The mare stamps nervously in her stall as the men enter.
"Renat…" The taller one speaks with a Moscow accent, thick and guttural.
"Depends who's asking."
"Dima Karpin sends his regards." The middle one grins, showing gold teeth. "Says Vadim's been stalling too long. It's time for collateral."
I step away from Rusalka's stall, putting distance between them and the horse. "Tell Dima the deal hasn't changed. He gets his payment when the race runs."
"That's not how this works anymore." The tall one moves closer, boots scraping against concrete. "Boss wants insurance. Something to show good faith."
"The ranch is the insurance."
"Not enough." His voice drops, dangerous. "We want proof that Vadim's serious about paying his debts."
The scarred man circles around behind me, and I turn slightly, keeping all three in view. The mare tosses her head in the stall, sensing the tension.
"Proof like what?"
"Blood," the gold-toothed one says. "Boss thinks maybe you need reminding who you're dealing with."
My muscles coil tightly. I've been in enough fights to recognize the moment before violence erupts—the shift in posture, the way men position themselves for maximum damage. These three have already made their decision.
"Walk away," I warn. "While you still can."
The tall one laughs. "Big words from one man against three."
"I've fought with worse odds."
"Let's see how tough you are without your crew to back you up."
He swings first—a lazy right hook aimed at my jaw. I duck under it and drive my elbow into his ribs. He doubles over, gasping, and I bring my knee up into his face. Blood sprays from his nose as he staggers backward.
The scarred man comes at me from behind with a crowbar, but I hear his footsteps and spin away.
The metal catches my shoulder instead of my skull, sending fire down my arm.
I grab his wrist and twist until he drops the weapon, then headbutt him in the mouth.
His teeth cut my forehead, but he goes down hard.
Gold-tooth has a knife now, the blade gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the barn door. He holds it low, professional grip, moving in a crouch. I back toward the mare's stall, looking for room to maneuver.
"You should have stayed out of family business," he snarls.
"Should have minded your own."
He lunges forward, knife aimed at my ribs. I twist away and grab his knife hand, slamming it against the stall door. The blade skitters across the concrete and before he can recover, I drive my fist into his kidney. He screams and drops to his knees.
The tall one has recovered enough to charge me, blood streaming from his broken nose. He tackles me around the waist, driving me backward into the barn wall. My head snaps back against the wood, stars exploding across my vision, and his hands find my throat.
I hook my fingers into his eye sockets and squeeze. He releases my throat with a howl of pain, stumbling away with hands pressed to his face. I push off the wall and catch him with an uppercut that lifts him off his feet. He hits the ground and doesn't get up.
The scarred man has found the crowbar again.
He swings it at my head, but I duck and the metal crashes into the wall where my skull was a moment before.
Splinters of wood fly. I grab a pitchfork from a nail on the wall and thrust the tines toward his chest. He jumps back, but not fast enough.
The points tear through his jacket and into the meat of his shoulder.
He screams and drops the crowbar, clutching the wounds. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and thick. I pull the pitchfork free and advance on him, tines aimed at his throat.
"Tell Dima if he wants collateral, he can come get it himself."
The man nods frantically, backing toward the door. The other two are stirring—gold-tooth spitting blood, the tall one groaning and rolling onto his side. All three of them are marked now, faces and bodies carrying evidence of what happens when Karpins trespass on Vetrov business.
"This isn't over," gold-tooth wheezes, struggling to his feet.
"Yes, it is. Unless you want to leave here in pieces."
The scarred man helps his companions stand. They lean on each other, moving slowly toward the door. Blood drips from their wounds onto the barn floor, leaving a trail of red spots on the concrete.
"Dima will hear about this," the tall one mutters through swollen lips.
"Tell him I'm ready for whatever he sends my way, but he'll be sorry."
They stumble out of the barn and pile into their truck. The engine roars to life, and they tear out of the yard, throwing gravel and dust. I watch until their taillights disappear down the drive.
The mare stands pressed against the back of her stall, eyes rolled white with fear. I move slowly toward her, hands extended, voice low and soothing.
"Easy, girl. It's over."
Rusalka calms gradually, nostrils still flaring but no longer pressed against the wall. I check her for injuries, running my hands down her legs and across her flanks. She's unharmed, but the terror lingers in her movements.
My shoulder throbs where the crowbar caught me, and blood drips from the cut on my forehead. The taste of copper fills my mouth, and when I breathe too deeply, my ribs protest with sharp stabs of pain. But I'm alive, and the mare is safe.
"Renat!"
Mira's voice cuts through the barn from somewhere behind me. I turn to see her standing in the doorway, face pale with shock. Her eyes take in the blood on the floor, the overturned bucket, the pitchfork still clutched in my hand.
"What happened? I heard shouting and—" She stops, seeing the blood on my face and shirt. "Oh, God, you're hurt."
I set the pitchfork against the wall and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The cut isn't deep, but head wounds bleed freely. My shirt is soaked through with sweat and blood.
"Karpins," I say simply.
Her gaze moves to the red spots on the concrete floor, the dent in the wall where the crowbar hit. "How many?"
"Three."
"And you fought them alone?"
"Didn't have a choice."
She approaches slowly, like she might approach a spooked horse. When she's close enough, she reaches up to examine the cut on my forehead. Her touch is gentle, careful not to cause more pain.
"You need medical attention."
"I need to call Vadim. Let him know what happened."
"After we get you cleaned up." She looks at my shoulder, where blood has soaked through my shirt. "Can you move your arm?"
I rotate my shoulder experimentally. It hurts, but nothing feels broken or torn. "It's fine."
"It's not fine. None of this is fine." Her voice shakes slightly.
"Help me to my room," I grumble.
I want to argue, but the adrenaline is fading, leaving behind exhaustion and pain.
The fight is over, but the consequences are just beginning.
The Karpins will report back to Dima, and he'll report to his bosses.
This attack was a test—a way to gauge how serious the Vetrovs are about protecting their interests here.
Now they know.