“Someone wrapped this tightly to hide the swelling,” I said. “He’s been walking on a festering infection for days.”

Dante’s eyes shifted from my hand to Marco.

Marco’s face drained of color, his grip on the lead rope loosening.

“I… I didn’t know, boss,” Marco stammered, taking a step backward. “The stable hands must have missed it.”

“You took care of him all week, Marco,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Dante stepped toward him, his hand reaching inside his coat.

At that moment, the radio on Marco’s shoulder crackled with static, a voice on the other end speaking a name that wasn’t Moretti.

“Bring him to the warehouse, Marco,” the radio buzzed.

“Kroll wants the horse dead by morning.”

Marco reached for his hip, but Dante was faster.

Dante’s hand shot out of his coat, the heavy steel of a semi-automatic pistol pressing directly under Marco’s chin.

“Drop the radio,” Dante said.

The plastic device clattered to the wet asphalt, static hissing in the cold night air.

Two of Dante’s guards materialized from the shadows of the SUV, grabbing Marco’s arms and pinning him against the side of the metal trailer.