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The Kentucky Derby comes whether we’re ready or not.

I want to go to Sophie every damn day since she’s found.

But the law’s crawlin’ up our asses like ticks on a hound.

Cops roll into Hell like they’re takin’ back Sodom, sniffin’ around the clubhouse, pullin’ brothers into the office one by one.

Questions about where we were that night she went missin’.

What we knew. If we had somethin’ to do with her disappearance.

I wanna rip the badge off the next fucker who even implies it.

But I keep my damn head. For Sophie.

I ain’t seen her since the hospital wouldn’t let me past the front desk. That guard might still be limpin’. James showed up, lookin’ smug in a suit like he’s already carved my name outta her life and filled it with his own. Said I’d never be good enough for her unless she gave up Paradise Falls.

As if she could walk away from the dirt she was born from.

Now it’s Derby Day. No Kings posted on Sophie. No calls. No word.

The Kings ain’t supposed to be anywhere near Paradise Falls, not with the cops tryin’ to pin this shit on us. But I know better. Cops ain’t protectin’ her. James ain’t protectin’ her. And if I can’t keep her safe, I’ll be damned if I don’t at least see her ride out her legacy.

We roll in late. Oaks, Bullet, Rye, and me. Scored some grandstand tickets, so we were slummin’ in the infield. Some folks stiffen when they see our cuts, like we’re draggin’ hell with us. But for once, Hell came to cheer.

The race is already underway, hooves thundering down the track like the sky’s about to split. Sophie’s horse, leads the pack. Jet-black and mean-lookin’ muscle stretchin’ smooth under that glossy coat. Ribbons Undone a filly has a rare chance to win.

She’s the underdog, and when crosses the line first, the crowd loses their collective shit.

The place explodes. Hats fly. Rich assholes toss their mint juleps. It’s a win straight outta a Bluegrass fairytale.

And there she is, in the winner’s circle.

Sophie Montgomery, damn near glowing in her red silk dress and that ridiculous feathered hat with the matching roses. Girl knew she’d win that garland of roses.

She’s still bruised, pale in places that oughta be pink, but she’s standin’ tall.

But fuck me. Sam’s got his arm around her.

And she lets him like he deserves any of the credit.

I stand in the dust at the edge of the crowd, a nobody in black leather while she gets crowned queen of the Commonwealth. Her farm’s safe. Her name’s now golden. And I ain’t in the picture.

I turn around and walk out before they hang the roses.

Back at the clubhouse, everything’s quiet. Too quiet. Oaks and Bullet peel off to the bar. Rye mutters somethin’ about checkin’ the perimeter, but I know what he’s really doin’, givin’ me space.

Becki finds me at the bar.

She slides onto the stool beside me.

“You went,” she says softly. “I watched the race. Your girl’s filly won. She made history. Or herstory. Or Horsetory.” Becki always rambles when she’s on edge.

“Had to make sure she made it through.”

“She looked real good.”

“She always does.”

“She’s the pride of Paradise,” she says, and means it.

We sit there in silence a minute. She reaches for my hand. I let her, even though it feels like holdin’ on to a life I already burned down.

“You don’t have to be alone, you know,” she whispers.

I close my eyes.

Maybe I don’t.

But Sophie’s still in my blood like bourbon in my veins. And I ain’t sure I got the strength to bleed her out.