Chapter 7
We ran the founders’ match anyway.
But not their version.
I gathered every player beside the field.
Placed all mount names in a clear bowl.
Had the youngest stable employee draw them randomly in front of everyone.
No private changes.
No “unavailable” favorites.
Marcus watched from the terrace without authority.
Ramona was not allowed near Alina or Lucy.
Anthony Rusk drew a horse he disliked.
He looked at Marcus.
Marcus looked away.
Good.
Rusk lost.
Badly.
He laughed afterward.
That surprised me.
“You know,” he said, “I thought I was better.”
“Most of us do.”
He stared at me.
Then asked why Marcus had promised him Willowmere, the gray mare he trained on for months.
There.
Confirmation.
Marcus had not only planned the result.
He had told the beneficiary.
Rusk claimed he did not know other assignments would be manipulated.
I believed him.
He expected preferential treatment.
Not sabotage.
Still wrong.
Different.
The winner was a quiet donor named Eric Sloan who had never won a club exhibition in his life.
His wife screamed louder than anyone.
The joy looked ridiculous.
Real.
I understood Thomas Bell’s anger.
A fair game produces uncertainty.
Uncertainty creates moments nobody can schedule.
Men like Vittorio hate that.
They want gratitude guaranteed.
After the match, I stood with Alina at the railing.
Lucy held a toy pony.
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“Mommy staying?”
My chest tightened.
“Yes.”
Ramona heard.
Good.
Lucy looked at her mother.
“Always?”
Alina answered before me.
“No one can promise always, baby.”
Wise.
Then:
“But nobody gets to send me away because they say my family is less.”
Lucy frowned.
“Less what?”
Alina looked at me.
I crouched.
“Nothing.”
Simple enough.
Ramona had called Alina’s blood cheap.
My daughter was three.
She did not need bloodline theory.
May you like
She needed to know her mother belonged because she chose to be here.
Not because Carbone approved her ancestry.
