Page 2 of The Mobster’s Cowgirl

I’m not going back.

“I have a job,” I remind her. “A new one. One I actually love.”

“You’ve been there, what, a few weeks? And you’re already calling it the best job you’ve ever had,” Anya says suspiciously.

I grin. “Because it is.”

She laughs softly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

“You could still come home.”

“This is home now.” The words surprise me because they come out so naturally.

I glance around the little guest house I’ve rented on the property. The boots beside the door, the riding helmet hanging from a hook, and the jacket tossed over the back of a chair. None of it is fancy or glamorous. It’s nothing like the places I grew up around.

But it’s mine.

“I want to keep as much distance between myself and the Bratva world as possible,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I don’t want that life, Anya. I never wanted it. I don’t care that Yuri is dead. I don’t care that Alexei is supposedly different. I just want to be left alone.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” I hear the smile in her voice. “But I’m still going to keep asking.”

I laugh. “I know.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When the call ends, I set my phone down and finish the last of my coffee before stepping outside.

The morning air is cool against my face, carrying the clean scent of grass and earth. I breathe it in slowly as I walk down the path toward the stables. This is what I wanted. Space. Quiet. A life where the biggest problem I have to worry about is whether a horse is favoring one leg or refusing to eat his breakfast.

Life in California, especially life at Il Prato del Paradiso, Il Prato for short, is nothing like New York, and that’s precisely why I love it.

The estate stretches for acres. Green pasture rolls beneath the early morning sun, with fences dividing the paddocks and the stable buildings sitting farther down the property. I still haven’t met the owner, Mr. M.

I know he’s Italian. I know he owns the entire estate. And I know he’s wealthy enough that buying and racing thoroughbreds is probably a hobby rather than a profession. And that’s all I need to know.

Owners rarely get involved anyway. They see the horses as investments, assets that either win races or lose value. It’s the trainers and grooms who know them. We know their moods, their habits, their injuries, and their favorite treats. We know when they’re frightened and when they’re pretending to be.

And then there’s Oscar.

I reach his stall and push the door open. “Good morning, handsome.”

A black head immediately appears over the half-door, followed by a soft nicker.

I grin. “I know. I’m late.”

He nudges my shoulder the second I step inside.

“Oscar…”

Another nudge.