I pointed to the chestnut mare three stalls down without looking at him. “That’s Rosie. She’s steady, won’t give you any trouble.”
“I can handle trouble.”
“I don’t care.” I grabbed Buck’s bridle from its hook and let myself into his stall. The routine of tacking up was soothing, something I could do without thinking. Brush, saddle pad, saddle, cinch. My hands knew the motions by heart.
I was checking Buck’s girth when I felt Dante’s presence beside me. He was watching, I could tell, studying the way I worked.
“Need something?” I asked tersely.
“No. I know my way around a horse.”
That surprised me, though I tried not to show it. I’d assumed a city boy like him wouldn’t know one end of a horse from the other. But when I glanced over, he was saddling Rosie with practiced efficiency, his movements confident.
“Where’d you learn to ride?” The question came out before I could stop it. Damn country small talk was etched into my brain.
“My uncle had a place upstate. Spent summers there as a kid.” He tightened the cinch, then ran his hand down Rosie’s neck. “Before my father forced me to join the family business.”
There was something in his voice, not quite regret, but close to it. For a second, I almost felt something like sympathy. Almost.
Then I remembered who he was. What he’d done. What he was making me do.
I led Buck out of the barn without another word, swinging up into the saddle with the ease of someone who’d been riding before they could walk. The leather creaked beneath me, familiar and right in a way nothing else felt anymore.
Dante mounted up beside me, settling into the saddle like he belonged there. Damn him.
“North pasture’s this way,” I said, nudging Buck forward.
We rode in silence as the sun continued its slow climb, turning the valley golden. The cattle were dark shapes against the grass, moving slowly as they grazed. New animals, bought with Valenti money, on land that was supposed to be Wesley land but wasn’t anymore. Not really.
“Tell me about the ranch,” Dante said after a while. “How it runs, what needs fixing, what the priorities are.”
I kept my eyes on the horizon, not trusting myself to look at him. The question felt like a test, like he was checking to see if I’d actually cooperate or make this difficult.
“We rotate the cattle between three main pastures,” I said finally, my voice flat. “Gives the grass time to recover. The north pasture has the best water access from the creek, but the fencing’s old. Needs replacing in sections.”
“How old?”
“Some of it’s original. Forty, fifty years.” I guided Buck around a low spot where water had pooled from last week’s rain. “Dad kept meaning to replace it, but...” I trailed off. But there was never enough money. Because he’d been drowning in debt to Dante’s family.
“We’ll get it done,” Dante said, like it was that simple. Like throwing money at a problem solved everything.
Maybe in his world, it did.
We rode in silence for another few minutes, the only sounds were the creak of leather and the soft thud of hooves on grass. The cattle lifted their heads as we passed, watching us with that placid curiosity cows had. They didn’t care that their owner had changed. Didn’t care that I’d sold my soul to keep them here.
“That section there,” I said, pointing to where the fence sagged between two posts. “Needs work.”
Dante reined in Rosie, studying the fence line with a critical eye. “Angelo can handle that. He’s done construction work.”
“Angelo doesn’t know shit about ranching,” I snapped. “I can tell that by his boots alone.”
“Then you’ll teach him.” He looked at me, and I felt the weight of his gaze even though I was still staring at the fence. “That’s part of this arrangement, Nick. I’m not just here to play pretend. I want to learn business and run it properly. And you’re going to show me how.”
I finally turned to face him. “Why? You’ve got enough money to hire a dozen ranch managers. Why do you actually give a damn about learning it yourself?”
Something shifted in his expression, a crack in that polished exterior. “Because I’m tired of the life I had in Jersey. The constant looking over my shoulder, the violence, the FBI breathing down our necks.” He gestured at the valley spread out before us. “This is different. This is clean. Legal. I want to build something here that doesn’t come with a criminal record.”
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. A mobster wanting to play cowboy, to pretend he could wash the blood off his hands by working the land.
