Chapter 7 - THE RIDING LESSON
-7
The private equestrian stables of the Cross estate were a masterclass in rustic luxury, housing four magnificent Arabian horses inside polished mahogany stalls that smelled of sweet hay, leather polish, and rich earth.
Lucy stood in the center of the sunlit indoor riding ring, wearing a tiny custom-fitted riding helmet, a navy-blue blazer, and knee-high leather boots. She was staring up in wide-eyed awe at a gentle, white-and-chestnut pinto pony named Buttercup, who was patiently chewing on a mouthful of timothy hay while a stable hand held its lead rope.
"Is she really mine to ride today, Daddy?" Lucy asked, turning her head as Fabian walked into the ring, his long strides eating up the distance across the soft sand footing.
"She is, sweetheart, provided you follow every single instruction Uncle Marcus—er, Uncle Salvatore gave you," Fabian corrected himself smoothly, stepping up beside his daughter and adjusting the chin strap of her helmet with a gentle, practiced touch. "Horses are large, powerful animals, Lucy. They respect confidence, but they demand discipline. Just like this estate."
"I'll be very good, I promise!" Lucy beamed, her little face lighting up with uncontainable excitement.
Gemma stood near the paddock gate, holding a small leather grooming brush and a spare towel, watching the scene with a quiet, maternal pride. She wore her tactical blazer over a cream silk blouse, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek, professional ponytail.
Fabian signaled to the stable hand, who carefully lifted Lucy and settled her small frame into the deep leather saddle. Lucy let out a delighted squeal, grabbing onto the pommel with both hands as Buttercup took a slow, gentle step forward across the arena sand.
Fabian walked alongside the pony, his hand resting reassuringly against Lucy’s knee to ensure her balance, while Gemma walked parallel on the opposite side, keeping a watchful, protective eye.
"You're a natural, Lucy!" Gemma called out, offering an encouraging smile. "Look at how straight your back is! You look like a professional equestrian!"
"Did you hear that, Daddy? I'm a professional!" Lucy laughed happily.
Fabian looked across the saddle at Gemma, his ice-blue eyes catching the warm afternoon sunlight filtering through the high clerestory windows of the stable roof. "You have a gift with children, Gemma. I've noticed that nothing in this house rattles you—not the syndicate business, not the security threats, and certainly not raising a high-spirited six-year-old."
Gemma met his gaze, her expression turning slightly thoughtful. "Children aren't complicated, Mr. Cross. They just need consistency, honesty, and safety. The things adults spend their whole lives complicating are usually very simple to a child."
"Simple," Fabian repeated, tasting the word. "In my world, simplicity is a dangerous luxury. Every time I've tried to keep things simple, someone has tried to tear down the walls."
"Then you build thicker walls," Gemma replied steadily, stepping around a low wooden hurdle as the pony made its second loop around the ring. "Or you make sure the people standing beside you are strong enough to hold them up when you're busy fighting the battles outside."
Fabian stared at her for a fraction of a second, struck once again by the profound, unshakeable resilience that radiated from her. She wasn't intimidated by his wealth, his power, or the dark, violent history of the syndicate. She was an anchor in a sea of perpetual storms.
"The walls are thicker than ever, Gemma," Fabian said softly, his voice dropping into a register meant only for her ears. "And you are standing right in the center of them."
Before Gemma could formulate a response, the heavy double doors of the stable swung open, and Salvatore hurried inside, looking uncharacteristically flustered. He bypassed the riding ring, stopping a respectful distance away until Fabian guided the pony to a gentle halt.
"Boss," Salvatore breathed, stepping up. "We just intercepted an encrypted transmission originating from the local police precinct. It seems someone filed an anonymous tip regarding suspicious vehicle movements at our northern docks."
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Fabian’s demeanor shifted in a microsecond. The gentle father vanished, replaced instantly by the ruthless mafia boss. "Local police? We own the precinct captain. No patrol unit goes anywhere near those docks without our authorization."
"That's just it," Salvatore said grimly, holding out a digital tablet. "It wasn't a local patrol unit. It was a federal task force out of Chicago. They're moving in right now."
