30. Mira
MIRA
M r. Corsi leads us back toward the stewards' office, his face grim. The walk feels eternal, every step taking us closer to whatever judgment awaits. Behind us, track security flanks the group, reminding us this situation has escalated beyond private business.
"Miss Petrova," Corsi begins as we enter the concrete building. "I need you to explain exactly what happened with those numbers."
My throat feels raw, but I force the words out. "I switched the saddle cloths before the race. Rusalka wore Thunder's Shadow's number, and he wore hers."
Corsi's pen scratches across his notepad. "Why?"
"Because our lives depended on it. She's green. I wasn't sure if she would win or not, and Thunder's Shadow was favored. I knew what the consequences would be if Rusalka lost. I couldn't take a chance." My hands shake as I speak, my face throbbing in multiple places from where Dima hit me.
"So you committed fraud to level the playing field?"
His words make the guilt I'm already feeling worse. I glance around at Batya and Renat, but they're silent. "I had no choice. She had to win."
"Even under false pretenses?" Corsi sets down his pen, studies my swollen face. "Miss Petrova, what you've described constitutes deliberate deception of the betting public, the racing commission, and every person who wagered on this race."
My stomach drops. Prison time. Fines. The end of everything we've fought to save.
"However," Corsi continues, and hope flickers in my chest, "the horse that crossed the finish line first did so under her own power. No drugs, no mechanical aids, no interference from jockeys or trainers. She won because she was faster."
"So what does that mean?" Batya asks from beside me. His voice holds a thread of hope.
Corsi glances toward the door where Vadim and the Karpins disappeared. "It means we have a situation that requires careful handling. The winning horse's identity was misrepresented, but the race itself was run fairly."
One of the track officials speaks up. "Sir, what about the betting implications? Thousands of people wagered based on the published numbers." Corsi scowls at him and he slinks back against the wall in silence, only to be startled when the door beside him bursts open.
A man wearing an official looking badge around his neck walks in and whispers something in Corsi's ear. Batya clamps a hand on my shoulder and Renat's eyes darken as he watches the interchange. Something is happening, but I can't tell if it's good or bad.
When the second official leaves the room, shutting the door behind himself, Mr. Corsi speaks again. "Miss Petrova, the situation has been… addressed."
"What does that mean?" I ask, flicking a glance at Renat, whose expression shifts to surprise.
"Mr. Vetrov has convinced his associate that pursuing this matter further would not be in anyone's best interest. The Karpin family has agreed to accept the racing commission's official decision, whatever that may be." Corsi sounds convinced, but Renat looks concerned, maybe annoyed.
My knees nearly buckle. "They're leaving?"
"They're leaving. But understand—this comes with conditions.
You will cooperate fully with the commission's investigation.
You will accept whatever penalties are levied.
And you will never engage in this type of deception again.
" His hand splays across his desk and I breathe a sigh of relief. Does this mean no jail time?
"I understand… But Rusalka's victory stands?"
Corsi's smile is thin but genuine. "The horse that crossed the finish line first will be declared the winner regardless of number. The betting implications will be sorted out separately."
It feels like a breath of fresh air. I can finally breathe again. Rusalka won. Officially, permanently, without question. The ranch is safe. Batya is safe. The debt is settled.
"Can I see her?" I ask. "Can I see Rusalka?"
"Your horse is being cooled down in the winner's circle area. You can collect her there."
I stand on shaking legs. Every muscle in my body feels loose, unsteady. The adrenaline that carried me through the confrontation is fading, leaving exhaustion and relief in its wake.
"Thank you," I tell Corsi. "For everything."
"Don't thank me yet. The commission's investigation will be thorough. This isn't over."
But as Batya and I walk toward the winner's circle, I know the important part is finished. Rusalka proved herself. The ranch survives. Whatever consequences follow, we'll face them together.
The crowd around the winner's circle has thinned, but photographers still snap pictures of Rusalka as she poses with her jockey. Her coat gleams in the afternoon light, every muscle defined beneath her glossy chestnut fur. She looks every inch the champion she proved herself to be.
"There's my girl," I whisper, and her ears prick forward at my voice.
The handlers lead her toward me, and I run my hands along her neck, feeling the slight tremor of exhaustion in her muscles. She's tired but proud, head held high despite the ordeal.
"You did it," I tell her. "You showed them all."
Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
Across the staging area, Renat stands with Vadim near the parking lot.
Their conversation appears heated but controlled.
As I watch, Vadim claps Renat on the shoulder—not the gesture of an enemy, but of a family member reaching an understanding.
Then Vadim turns and walks away, flanked by two other men in expensive suits. They climb into a black sedan and drive off without looking back.
Renat remains by the fence, his eyes finding mine across the distance. Even from here, I can see the tension radiating from his shoulders, the careful way he holds himself. But he's alone now. No longer caught between loyalty and conscience.
He starts walking toward me.
Every step he takes sends electricity through my chest. This man fought for me. Put his life on the line to protect mine. Chose me over the family that raised him, the obligations that defined him, the safe path that would have kept him alive.
"Mira." His voice is rough when he reaches me, the single word carrying weight I can't fully process.
"Is it over?" I ask.
"The immediate threat is finished. Vadim talked the Karpins down. They'll be back, but hopefully, they will come only for the horse." He doesn’t look sure, and that puts me on edge.
"And you?"
Something shifts in his expression. "I made my choice back in that shed. There's no going back from that."
He's essentially declaring himself an outcast from the only family he's known. But instead of fear, I feel something fierce and protective rise in my chest.
"What will you do?"
"Figure it out as I go." His hand finds my arm, fingers gentle against the bruises Dima left behind. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. Scared, but fine."
"You should be scared. What you did today—switching those numbers—that took courage I didn't know you possessed." His eyes search me, and I see the tenderness there I had missed for the past few days, or maybe I'd been ignoring it.
"It took desperation."
"No. It took intelligence and guts and the kind of determination that most people never find." His thumb brushes across my swollen cheek. "You saved your ranch. Saved your horse. Saved yourself."
The praise makes my throat tight. "I nearly got us both killed."
"You proved that your mare was the best horse on that track. Everything else was just… politics."
Around us, the activity of the racetrack continues. Horses being led to trailers, spectators heading toward parking areas, staff cleaning up the detritus of race day. But it feels distant, unreal. The only thing that exists is Renat's hands on my face and the promise in his dark green eyes.
"Come with me," he says quietly.
"Where?"
"Back to the stables. Away from all this. We need to talk."
I nod, unable to trust my voice. He takes Rusalka's lead rope from the handler, and together we walk away from the winner's circle across the track grounds and out the back exit toward our barn area.
Back in our barn, he puts Rusalka in her stall while I collect a bucket of feed, some carrots, and a fresh pail of water for her.
Rusalka snorts, impatient with standing still after her victory.
Renat removes her halter, lets her move freely.
She immediately drops to roll in the dirt, coating her glossy coat with dust and grass stains.
"She's earned it," I say.
"She's earned everything." Renat closes the gate, turns back to me. "And so have you."
As his fingers lace through mine, I feel the full weight of what's happened crash over me. The race. The confrontation. The violence. The resolution. Everything balanced on a knife's edge, and somehow, we survived.
I move toward him, drawn by something stronger than fear or logic or self-preservation. When I'm close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, I stop.
"Renat."
"I know." His hands find my waist, pull me closer. "You don’t have to say it, lyubimaya …" He pulls me with him, backing toward the stairs to his bunk loft.
And then I'm kissing him with every shred of tension and relief and terror that's been building in my chest since the moment I heard Vadim order him to kill me. It's desperate and grateful and hungry all at once, pouring everything I can't say into the connection between our mouths.
He responds with equal intensity, hands tangling in my hair, pulling me against him with a force that speaks of his own desperation and relief. We're both shaking—from adrenaline, from fear, from the overwhelming reality of being alive when we should have been dead.
We stumble up the steps, teeth knocking together a few times, with desperate fingers tearing at each other's clothing. I hear Batya enter the barn, call my name, but I ignore it. I'm with the man I love now, and I'm not pulling away again for any reason, ever.