Kroll, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face, looked at Dante.

“The Saint is cornered,” Kroll said. “The payroll is mine, the stables are mine, and your horse is sold.”

Dante stood his ground, his gun pointed at Kroll’s chest.

“You came to my home, Kroll,” Dante said. “You will not leave it.”

“You don’t have the numbers tonight, Moretti,” Kroll scoffed.

Suddenly, the floodlights of the arena flickered and surged to life.

The bright white light blinded us for a second.

Through the side doors of the arena, a dozen of Dante’s security guards poured in, their weapons raised.

They had circled around through the pasture gates.

“Drop your weapons!” one of Dante’s lieutenants roared.

The distraction was all Dante needed.

He fired, his bullet catching Kroll in the chest before the mob boss could raise his weapon.

Kroll fell heavily into the dirt.

The arena erupted into a chaos of gunfire and shouting.

Julian panicked, his eyes darting toward me.

He lunged forward, aiming his pistol at my chest.

“If I can’t have the horse, you’re not keeping her!” Julian screamed.