Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Dark
The private transport van arrived at Belmont Park under the shroud of midnight.
Grayson had rented an entire secluded barn on the eastern perimeter of the grounds, surrounding it with round-the-clock private security. Rumors had already exploded across the horse racing tabloids. The racing commission had confirmed the late registration of *Storm*, an unraced stallion belonging to an obscure holding company, with Kira Dawson listed as the jockey.
The news had hit the racing community like a detonated bomb.
The morning papers carried screaming headlines: *THE GHOST OF BELMONT RETURNS: CAN KIRA DAWSON WALK, LET ALONE RIDE?*
Inside the private barn, Kira stood by Storm’s stall, brushing out his mane with slow, methodical strokes. She wore her old racing silks—black with gold piping, the colors Grayson had chosen to match his family’s emblem.
A knock sounded on the barn door. Troy opened it, revealing a slight, elderly man with thick glasses and grease-stained hands.
“Kira?” the old man called out, his voice trembling.
Kira dropped her brush. “Uncle Bobby!”
She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Bobby Evans, her father’s oldest friend and the former head mechanic at Whitfield Farm. Bobby had been banished from the racing circuit shortly after Kira’s accident for asking too many questions about Red Sovereign’s toxicology.
“Look at you,” Bobby said, wiping a tear from his leathery cheek. “They told me you were dead, then they told me you were in a wheelchair. And now I see your name on the Belmont entries.”
“I’m alive, Bobby. And we’re going to make them pay,” Kira said, leading him toward the stall. “This is Storm.”
Bobby’s eyes widened as he took in the horse’s immense structure, the deep barrel chest, the powerful hindquarters, and the intelligent, fiery eyes. “God in heaven... he’s built like *Man o' War*. But Kira... you don't know what you're walking into.”
“Tell me,” Kira said, her expression hardening.
Bobby lowered his voice, casting an uneasy glance at Grayson, who sat quietly on a wooden trunk in the corner of the aisle, listening intently.
“Julian Voss isn’t relying on Monica’s talent this time,” Bobby whispered. “Monica’s horse, *Golden Emperor*, is fast, but he can’t hold stamina past ten furlongs. Julian bought two other horses in tomorrow's race—rabbit horses, ridden by dirty jockeys. Their only job isn't to win. It’s to box you into the rail on the clubhouse turn and run you into the dirt just like they did last year.”
Kira felt a cold shiver trace her spine. “Who are the jockeys?”
“Mendez and Cole,” Bobby spat. “Mercenaries. They take Julian’s money to force fouls and cause pile-ups. In the chaos of the final turn, an 'accidental' clip of heels is easy to sell to the stewards.”
“They won't get the chance,” Grayson’s voice cut through the dim barn like a sharpened cleaver.
Grayson stood up and walked toward them, his presence instantly dominating the space. He looked at Bobby. “You have access to the jockey locker rooms before the race, Evans?”
“I’m still licensed as an independent farrier,” Bobby nodded nervously. “They let me check the shoes in the saddling paddock.”
Grayson turned to Troy. “Troy, pay Mendez and Cole a visit tonight at their hotel. Don't touch them. Just show them the photographs of their offshore bank accounts, and let them know that if their mounts come within three feet of Kira tomorrow, they will spend the rest of their lives drinking their meals through a straw.”
“Understood, Boss,” Troy said, nodding once before vanishing into the night.
Kira turned to Grayson, her jaw tight. “I don't need you fixing my race, Grayson. I want to win this cleanly. If I win because you threatened the other jockeys, it means nothing.”
Grayson stepped close, his gaze pinning her against the wooden stall door. The distance between them shrank until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
May you like
“I’m not fixing your race, Kira,” Grayson murmured, his voice velvety and low. “I am leveling the playing field. The Voss family has cheated their way to twenty years of trophies. I am removing their weapons so that when you beat Monica Voss tomorrow, the entire world will know she was beaten by pure, unadulterated skill. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow, you take back your life.”
***
