The horses thundered across the turf, hooves pounding like war drums against the velvety green of the imported Firenze sod. Each stride flung tiny flecks of earth into the air as the jockeys crouched low, gripping reins, their silks billowing behind them in vibrant trails-blue, crimson, emerald, gold. The crowd roared, a blend of laughter, gasps, and distant applause as the pack narrowed around the first bend.
Mr. Linton sat back in his chair beneath the shaded VIP box, the white-gold emblem of the Getty crest gleaming from the banner above. His eyes weren't on the leading horse, nor on the screen mounted before them-he stared into the distance, gaze tracing the rhythm of the race, lost in thought.
"Eric," he said, voice quieter now, touched with an odd softness.
Eric leaned in. "Yes, sir?"
"See that lad in the yellow silk?" Mr. Linton gestured with his chin. "Third from the outside. Good form, steady arm. But he's nothing like my brother."
Eric blinked. "Your brother?"
Linton nodded slowly. "Peeta. Peeta Brian Getty. He was the best horse racer I ever saw. Still is, if the world hasn't forgotten what speed is."
Eric shifted, intrigued. "I didn't know he raced."
Linton chuckled, not bitter, not proud-just somewhere in the lonely middle. "We grew up in the countryside-no tracks, just wild open fields. Our father bought a pair of colts when we were twelve. While I ran the books and learned the worth of land, Peeta rode. And God, could he ride. You wouldn't have caught him with a saddle most days-he liked to feel the animal, know it like breath in his lungs."
Eric listened as the wind stirred the banners overhead. The sound of hooves thundered closer, like a storm chasing them through memory.
"I still remember," Linton said. "One afternoon, a summer drenched in honeysuckle. He raced the village's best rider across five meadows, and beat him with a laugh. No whip, no spur-just balance and instinct. The horse obeyed him like they shared a secret."
Eric turned to the track. "And now?"
"Now?" Linton sighed. "Now he's a ghost in the body of a man. But still, I've never seen anyone ride like Peeta. Not once."
They fell silent for a moment, both gazing out at the track as the horses flew past the midpoint.
The race was reaching its crescendo. The field had split now-six leaders, the rest trailing behind, losing steam. Dust swirled behind the galloping hooves, turning the air golden. The announcer's voice crackled with life from the overhead speakers:
"-and it's Bastiano leading! But wait, coming in strong from the far side-number 9, Firenze Fire, catching up now! We're approaching the final bend-ladies and gentlemen, this is the kind of speed that ignites history!"
Eric sat upright, his eyes darting from screen to field. "Who's that in ninth? That movement-so calculated-"
Mr. Linton narrowed his eyes. The ninth rider, now slipping past the others with astonishing finesse, wore a dark cap pulled low and mirrored shades that caught the sun like steel. His beard was gone-clean-shaven, sharp-jawed, face unreadable under the helmet and glasses. But there was something about the posture. The calm. The way he leaned with the horse, not over it.
"That one," Linton said. "Watch him."
"Number nine... he's gaining!"
The voice of Salvatore, the Italian announcer, boomed over the crowd.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves-for we are witnessing a surge! Number 9! The mystery rider! By God, where did this man come from?! Firenze Fire surging ahead-no hesitation-every muscle in sync-look at that form!"
The crowd erupted, the noise swelling like an orchestra as Firenze Fire galloped to the front, inch by inch overtaking Bastiano. The announcer's voice cracked with excitement.
"Final one hundred meters! Bastiano clings to the lead-but no! No, he's losing ground-Firenze Fire now head-to-head-neck-and-neck-and he pulls-he pulls ahead!"
The crescendo of cheers hit like a wave crashing into the grandstand.
"Firenze Fire! Number 9! Ladies and gentlemen-your winner!"
The gates of celebration swung open. Confetti fired from the sides of the viewing platform. Trumpets blared. Salvatore raised both arms in theatrical disbelief.
"By the holy turf of Firenze-we have a new champion! Who is he? He rode like the wind itself!"
Mr. Linton didn't move. His eyes remained fixed on the rider as the horse slowed, veering toward the victory post.
"Who is he?" Eric repeated, stunned.
Mr. Linton leaned back slowly, lips curving into a knowing smile. "You'll hear it now."
The loudspeakers crackled once more. Salvatore's voice was giddy, still breathless from the shock.
"Ladies and gentlemen... I am being handed a card. Ah, yes! Our winner for the inaugural Getty Horse Grand Prix, rider of Firenze Fire, wearing cap and glasses... is one-Alexander! Alexander Marquez!"
A thunder of applause rolled again across the estate.
Alexander, still on horseback, gave a subtle nod to the crowd. He raised one hand in salute, tipping his cap slightly-but never removed his glasses. He seemed untouched by the noise, the triumph, the glamour. Cool. Composed. A man not surprised by his own victory.
Eric turned to Linton. "Do you know him?"
Mr. Linton chuckled under his breath. "I know of him. I've watched him race abroad. Spain. Then Argentina. Quiet, skilled. Keeps to himself. His file didn't impress most buyers... but I saw the hands. The balance. The restraint. And now, the world sees it too."
Eric leaned back in awe. "He's like a ghost."
Linton looked at him sideways. "No, Eric. He's the echo."