The stallion limped heavily, his head low, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Put him in the medical stall,” I directed, taking the lead rope myself.

I led Vesper into a large, rubber-matted stall equipped with overhead surgical lights.

I immediately went to work, washing my hands in the industrial sink and searching the glass cabinets for the supplies I needed.

Dante stood by the stall door, watching my every move with quiet intensity.

I prepared the syringe, drawing up a heavy dose of pain relief and antibiotics.

“Hold his head,” I told Dante, not caring about his status in this moment.

“If he moves while I inject this, we’re both in trouble.”

To my surprise, the boss of the Moretti syndicate did as he was told, taking the lead rope and whispering softly to the horse.

I slid the needle into Vesper’s neck, and he flinched but stayed still under Dante’s firm grip.

Next, I knelt in the clean shavings, preparing to lance the infected wound on his hind leg.

Just as I touched the swollen skin with the scalpel, Dante’s phone began to vibrate violently in his pocket.