Chapter 2 Dimitri
DIMITRI
The bolt slides into place with a metal clunk that reverberates across the stable hallway.
I test the door once to confirm it's secured, then step back and roll my shoulders.
The girl is locked in the tack shed now after having a go at her for more than an hour in my office.
She's wedged between shelves of bridles and feed buckets with no window and no way out unless I decide to open it.
She didn't fight when I shoved her inside, which tells me she's smarter than most thieves I've dealt with.
Smart enough to know when resistance will only make things worse.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time. 1:14 a.m.
The next guard shift starts at two, and I need to make my rounds before then.
The theft attempt has my nerves raw, and I can't afford to leave any part of the operation unchecked.
The Radich crew has been probing for weaknesses for months now, testing our defenses, waiting for us to slip, and my older brothers have already had their run-ins.
The girl showing up tonight feels too convenient, too targeted, and I'm not naive enough to believe in coincidences.
I guess it's possible that she moved in on one of our horses alone, but it's not likely.
Something tells me after Sonya Radich spilled her blood on this ground, her family has decided to escalate things, and the war started under my brothers' watch is going to be mine to inherit.
I walk back toward the main stable block, where the horses have settled after the disturbance, their breathing quiet in the darkness.
Rusalka is back in her stall, penned and locked down, and I pause outside her door to make sure she's calm.
She turns her head toward me, ears flicking forward, and I reach through the bars to run my hand along her neck.
Her coat is warm and smooth, and she leans into the touch.
"You're fine," I tell her. "Nobody's taking you anywhere."
She huffs once and turns back toward her hay net, dismissing me.
I move on, checking each stall as I pass, counting heads and looking for anything out of place.
The operation's been compromised for weeks now, small things going wrong in ways that add up—guard schedules messed with, things left unsecured.
Doors that should be locked found open at odd hours, leaving us vulnerable.
Someone on my staff is feeding information to people who want to see me fail or be exposed, and I haven't been able to isolate them.
The girl could be part of it.
She could be a distraction, sent in to draw my attention while a stronger play happens elsewhere.
Or she could be exactly what she claims to be, a lone thief who got unlucky.
Either way, I'm keeping her close until I know for certain.
I reach the end of the aisle and push through the doors into the training yard.
The air outside is cooler than in the barn, sharp against my skin, and I breathe it in deep.
The yard is empty at this hour, the dirt raked smooth and the equipment stored away.
Floodlights mounted on tall poles throw long shadows across the ground, and I scan the perimeter out of habit, looking for movement that shouldn't be there.
Everything is still—except for my pulse.
I cross the yard toward the shed on the far side, where the saddles and training gear are kept.
The door should be locked at night, but when I reach it, I find it hanging open.
My body tenses, and I step inside, flipping the light switch.
The interior is a mess.
Saddles are stacked haphazardly on their racks, bridles tangled on hooks, and a bucket of grooming tools has been knocked over, spilling brushes and combs across the floor.
I turn and walk back outside, pulling my phone out again, scrolling through my contacts, and find the number I need, then press Call.
It rings twice before a groggy voice answers, annoyed.
"What?"
"Get to the training yard," I say. "Now."
There's a pause, then a rustling sound as the person on the other end wakes up fully.
"It's one in the morning, Dimitri. What's going on?"
"You left the equipment shed unlocked. Get here, and bring the others."
I hang up before he can argue and shove the phone back into my pocket.
I lean against the shed's exterior wall, arms crossed, and wait.
It takes less than fifteen minutes for them to arrive from their bunkhouse at the far end of the track.
Three men stumble into the yard, still pulling on jackets and rubbing sleep from their eyes.
The one in front is Rodion, the groom who was supposed to lock up tonight.
He's young, maybe twenty-five, with a thin face and nervous eyes that dart around the yard before landing on me.
Noorse and Sylvan follow behind him, both looking equally as annoyed to have been brought out this time of night, but I won't let them keep fucking up and not hear about it.
"Boss," he says uncertainly. "What's this about?"
I push off the wall and walk toward him, stopping close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my gaze.
He's a smaller man but he slouches, making it worse.
The former jockey knows, however, how serious I am about workplace housekeeping.
"The shed was open—unlocked. Anyone could've walked in and taken what they wanted."
His face pales.
"I locked it. I swear I did."
"Then explain why I found it hanging open ten minutes ago."
He stammers, his hands moving uselessly at his sides.
"I don't know. Maybe the lock didn't catch. Maybe someone came back after I left."
His excuses are going to get him smacked.
"Or maybe you didn't lock it at all."
I let the words sit between us for a moment, watching him squirm.
"This isn't the first time you've been careless. Last week, you left a saddle out in the rain. The week before that, you forgot to latch the gate to the training ring. Now this."
I swear I feel like I’m parenting teenagers, not managing professional adults.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice cracks. "It won't happen again."
"You're right. It won't."
I turn to the other two men, who are standing a few paces back, watching with wary expressions.
"The Radich crew is out there, looking for any excuse to move against us.
Every mistake you make gives them an opening.
Every door left unlocked, every piece of equipment left unsecured, every schedule you let slip to the wrong person—it all adds up.
And when they come for us, it won't be my head on the line. It'll be yours."
Rodion's breathing is shallow now, his eyes wide.
I step closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear.
"Fix the fuckups, Rode, because if this happens again, there will be worse consequences than losing a night of sleep."
He opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it.
He nods once, quickly, and turns toward the shed.
The other two men watch him go and follow behind him.
I don't need to say anything else.
They've seen what happens when I lose patience, and they're not interested in testing me further.
"Lock the shed after it's cleaned up," I tell them. "Then you may as well get to work."
They nod and move to obey, and I turn and walk back toward the main building.
The confrontation has left me tense, my muscles coiled, and I need to move before the energy burns through me.
I take the long route through the yard, circling the perimeter and checking the fences, looking for any signs of tampering.
Everything is intact except a spot in the chain link that reveals where the girl snuck in.
I find her bag left there in the darkness and take it with me.
It tells me maybe she is working alone.
Why else would she have cut through the fence?
If she were with someone else, they'd have walked her through the gate and she would never have had to cut through.
But that doesn't settle the unease sitting deep in my gut.
By the time I reach the tack room where the girl is locked up, it's nearly four in the morning.
I unlock the door and pull it open, letting the light from the hallway spill inside.
She's sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest.
She looks up when I enter, her gray-green eyes sharp despite the hour.
"Get up," I say.
She doesn't move. "Why?"
"Because I told you to."
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then pushes herself to her feet.
I notice the way she keeps her back straight, refusing to show weakness.
The room is colder than it was earlier as the heat kicked off and now night's effect on the Earth is taking hold.
She shivers, but she tries not to show her chill or the anxious energy she has.
But I see her hand trembling as she crosses her arms over her chest.
"Tell me again," I say. "Who sent you?"
"Nobody." Her voice is flat, tired. "I already told you that."
She glances at her bag still gripped in my fist.
I drop it onto the floor next to me and scowl at her.
"And I don't believe you."
"That's your problem, not mine."
She paces along the wall like an animal trapped in a cage with a predator.
Wise girl—she understands who I am.
I study her, taking in the set of her jaw, the way she holds herself despite the exhaustion I can see creeping into her posture.
She's too controlled for someone who should be terrified.
Most people crack under pressure, but she's holding steady.
"You're not a simple thief," I say.
"Simple thieves don't scout a place this thoroughly.
They don't time their entry down to the minute.
They don't walk straight to the most valuable target without hesitation.
You had a plan, and that plan was well thought out.
So either you're working for someone, or you knew a hell of a lot about this place before you came here. "
She doesn't answer, and I push off the desk, closing the distance between us.
She doesn't flinch or step back, and I stop close enough that I can see the faint bruise forming on her arm where I grabbed her earlier.
"Here's what's going to happen," I say, keeping my voice even.
"You're going to stay here. You're going to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it.
You're going to run errands, carry messages, and keep your mouth shut.
And while you're doing all of that, I'm going to watch you.
I'm going to see who talks to you, who avoids you, and who tries to get you alone.
If you're connected to the people sabotaging my operation, you're going to lead me straight to them.
And if you're not, then you're still useful as a pair of hands I can control. "
"I won’t do any of that for you, you dumb bastard," she snips.
"Then I'll kill you."
I say it matter-of-factly.
"You broke into my property. You tried to steal from me. Nobody knows you're here, and nobody will miss you if you disappear. That's not a threat. It's a fact."
She holds eye contact, and for a moment, I see emotion flicker in her eyes—fear, maybe, or calculation.
Then it's gone, and her expression smooths out.
She stares at me as I back out of the room and lock the door behind me.
The sky outside is starting to lighten, the first hints of dawn creeping over the horizon, and I feel the exhaustion from the long night settling into my bones.
But I can't afford to rest until I know what I'm dealing with.
The girl is a tool now, whether she realizes it or not.
And I'm going to use her to find the traitor in my ranks.