I Took 3 Months Off of OUMERE to Hunt the International Con Men Behind an Elite Polo Ponzi Scheme Part II: A Tale of Two Ciros

I Took 3 Months Off of OUMERE to Hunt the International Con Men Behind an Elite Polo Ponzi Scheme

Part 1 of the story can be read here.

The People of Mars and Greenwich

Michel by this time had gone up to New York, and for a few weeks, I didn’t hear from him. The silence was a stark contrast to what we had before. Since our initial rendezvous, he had been coming to my home in Delray Beach. The last time we were together, we swam in the ocean at midnight. I remember him holding me in the Atlantic Ocean, under the moonlight, looking up at the stars. He pointed out a red object in the sky and asked me what it was, and I said “it’s either a red star or Mars” He paused for a moment and then asked me something I’ll never forget: “Oh wow…Do you think there are people living there?”

At that moment, I remembered how many times I’ve been accused of being shallow because I’m only interested in men for their looks or for only wanting one thing. It took a second for my mind to have thoughts again, and I replied, “On Mars?…No, no there aren’t.” I didn’t want to say I thought he was stupid, but I did wonder if maybe he had just forgotten how to operate a cellphone, and that’s why I hadn’t heard from him.

I prepared for what I initially believed would be a brief departure from OUMERE by building up as much inventory as I could. I personally make all of OUMERE’s products — mixing, bottling and boxing each bottle. In anticipation of my time away, I made gallons of product and bottled hundreds of units so the online orders could be fulfilled. A trusted friend took over the shipping duties while the OUMERE boutique closed until my return.

Me in the OUMERE Boutique on the right, one of my serums, Serum Bioluminelle, on the left.

While I was in Florida preparing for my departure, Ciro, now up in Greenwich, sent me a message claiming he had something for “my eyes” only — a “good investment.”

He wanted me to invest in Polo United’s latest venture: the bulk purchase of Argentine horses to be sold in America. He urged secrecy, claiming it was “entirely legal” and would provide “income forever.”Polo United wasn’t even a registered LLC at the time, and wouldn’t be until July 1st, 2024 despite having been in operation since January. Even if it had been registered, it was only authorized to conduct business related to playing polo, not to sell investment shares in horses. This made the offer both unauthorized and illegal.

Articles of Organization for Polo United, Filed July 1, 2024

His insistence on secrecy and assurances of legality were deeply troubling. The lack of transparency, coupled with false promises of perpetual income, raised clear red flags of fraud and potential violations of securities laws, as no legitimate investment should be conducted in secret or under the guise of “forever” returns without proper registration or regulation.

On June 20th I arrived in Greenwich. I was staying in a charming, fully stocked cottage on the forested property of a North Stamford manor, surrounded by dense woods. I told Ciro I was in town and to have Maggie ready for me at 5PM. My drive to the Greenwich Polo Club from the cottage was only about five miles, but the winding, single-lane roads, flanked by creeks and dense forests, stretched the journey. The sharp, steep turns through the hilly terrain made the drive feel much longer, each twist revealing another hidden lake or stream nestled in the woods.

I pulled up to the guard gate of the Greenwich Polo Club, an exclusive and expansive country estate owned by the industrialist Peter Brant. Though Peter Brant has never met me, I have met him. For over a year, I had been involved with his racehorse trainer, a man I refer to as Satan, in what could only be described as a psychosexual relationship with the embodiment of pure evil.

Like Peter Pan, Satan was deeply insecure about his image and made a point of letting me know whenever Peter called. He would put him on speakerphone for me to listen, flaunting his connection. Satan also took pride in showing me the strange pieces of modern art Peter gifted him each year — a nod to Brant’s famous art collection that didn’t impress me. In fact, of all of the “art” Satan had in his collection, the only true piece worthy of admiration was a Leroy Neiman I convinced him to buy that depicted racehorses running on a track.

I ended things with Satan around 10 days after I ended things with Peter Pan because a friend told me he choked out a woman in upstate New York. Again.

I drove along the farm road, passing a large stone building on my right — the private museum housing Peter Brant’s art collection. Around the bend, a white mansion appeared on my left, framed by a pristine white wooden fence. And there they were, the polo fields. The fields sat at the heart of the club, bordered by grandstands that could seat a few hundred spectators. I made my way down the hill toward the trailers, where I spotted Ciro and his new groom from Argentina, Carlitos.

The Greenwich Polo Club, Greenwich CT

I got out of my car and saw Maggie tied to the trailer with the other horses. As I approached her, my stomach dropped. Her nose was torn up, lacerations covered her face, and body and she was bleeding. I immediately asked Ciro what had happened. He brushed it off casually, saying she had run into a fence, but assured me that he was applying iodine and that she’d be fine in a couple of days. “Don’t worry,” he added. “You can ride Brisa today.”

I tried not to let it bother me. I’ve owned racehorses for years and know horses tend to get themselves injured, so I gave Ciro the benefit of the doubt instead of jumping to accusations of neglect. I made sure her wounds were being treated and I rode Brisa that afternoon. But the lack of any mention or warning about Maggie’s injury gnawed at me. Why had no one said anything?

Brisa and Me, Greenwich Polo Club

The next day, Ciro invited me to ride in the morning and asked me to lunch afterward. I rode Brisa again because Maggie was out of commission due to her injury. After riding, Ciro asked me to meet him at a grocery store about five minutes north of the club. Normally, when someone invites you to lunch, it’s at a restaurant where the host pays, but with Ciro, things were always a little off. Instead of a restaurant, he took me to a grocery store, The Happiness Market, then casually told me to grab whatever I wanted, which, as I realized, I was going to pay for myself. I sat at a table with a friend I brought along and we had our lunch while he paced around the store, still on his phone. When he finally sat down, his lunch was a junk food feast consisting of three large bottles of sugary watermelon juice, a giant container of chicken salad, a giant serving of pasta and a lemon he cut in half and ate like a hand fruit.

As I sat there, something didn’t feel right. It was that sense of foreboding dread that always seemed to loom over me with Polo United. He handed me a folder and told me it was confidential. Inside the folder were papers labeled “Polo United Horse Business”, it was the three-page “investment opportunity” he proposed to me earlier. It wasn’t just lunch I was paying for. The whole interaction was a microcosm of Ciro’s manipulative patterns — making things appear casual or business-like but always with the angle of getting money.

The papers outlined a plan for purchasing, maintaining, and selling 15 horses over the course of a year. The numbers seemed ambitious, with an estimated $915,000 in income and costs conveniently streamlined to make it look like a profitable venture. What bothered me wasn’t just the inflated figures, but the fact that Polo United wasn’t even a registered business in Florida, Connecticut, or anywhere else in the U.S. A fact I kept to myself. It was clear he hadn’t gone through the legal channels to formalize any of this. Ciro, however, assured me this was all legal. And the value he placed on this venture? $1,300,000.

Polo United Investment Scam

I said no, so Ciro didn’t get the money from me, but it seems he may have found a different investor in Sugar Daddy. A month later Sugar Daddy’s company filed a lien with Ciro named as the debtor — a strange move that left me wondering what kind of deal had really taken place.

After saying no, like a reflex, Ciro pulled out another sheet of paper — this time, an invoice. He had been pushing for me to join Polo United on an Argentina trip in November, and this invoice reflected that: thousands for the trip, plus thousands for my “membership” into Polo United at the Greenwich Polo Club. On top of that, there was another $2,000 per month to board Maggie. He said Zoe would be in touch with me to arrange the payments, which she was.

The Rains of Pine Plains

On Saturday, June 22, 2024, Ciro asked me to go up to Mashomack Polo Club, which was hosting its big annual international polo event. He wanted me to help with the horses and watch Michel play his match. Michel’s been playing for a team based out of Mashomack for about 20 years — let’s call them “Gotham Polo”.

I hadn’t seen or heard much from Michel since arriving in the area, aside from a brief welcoming text a few days prior. Mashomack itself was a vast polo ground situated in the middle of nowhere in Pine Plains, NY — about an hour’s drive north of Greenwich along a scenic parkway. I brought my friend Ron with me in case the event turned out to be lame.

When we arrived, I met up with Ciro, who asked me to help Carlitos with the horses. It was a hot, sunny day, and I was sweating through my yellow crop top and white polo jeans. As I looked over to the gravel road, I saw Michel riding his bike toward me, dressed in his team’s polo uniform. He greeted me with his usual flirtatious kiss on the cheek, but we only talked briefly before he asked if I needed to use the bathroom.

I did, and Michel led me to a secluded area off the side of the barn where the restroom was. He waited for me in another room while I went in. When I came out, there was this palpable tension, like he wanted to make a move but was holding back. He kept looking out the window like he was watching out for someone. Since this barn was his “office”, I didn’t push for anything , I figured he was just worried we would run the risk of getting caught by a wandering groom again, so we headed back outside. Michel then rode off to the field to play his match.

I had to bring Brisa to the field where two “guests of honor” were playing in the match. Just as the match was about to begin, heavy rains came through, causing a brief delay. I assumed, with the winds picking up, that the match would be called off, and I’d finally be able to go home. Apparently, others had the same idea. Players were scrambling off the field in the chaos when an older man shouted, “Let’s get out there! These guys came all the way from the Philippines to play!”

The guests of honor, playing on Team Philippines, were the sons of Speaker of the House of the Philippines, Ferdinand Martin G. Romualdez. Ciro, clearly starstruck, was giddy with excitement. Once the rain let up, I was helping Andrew get on Brisa when Ciro, eager to impress, looked up at him and said, “Michel is my best friend, we’ve been playing together for years.” Andrew barely reacted, simply asking for his stirrups to be shortened before riding off for the match. To add insult to injury, while Ciro was tightening the girth strap for another player, he looked down at Ciro and said, “oh yeah I have heard of you…you’re the Instagram guy with all the polo ads.” Ciro gave an embarrassed “uhhhh?” and the player cantered away.

When the match finally ended, I wandered over to the barns to find Ron, hoping we could leave. The event had turned into one of those typical, pretentious polo gatherings, with more people drinking under tents in fancy clothes than actually watching the match. I found Ron, and as we were walking to the car, Ciro called me, asking us to join him under the big main tent where everyone was gathering.

Mashomack Polo Club, Pine Plains NY

The tent was large, filled with about 30 tables, most covered in used plates and empty wine glasses, signaling the event was winding down. Players and their families were lingering and chatting. We sat at a table closest to the edge of the tent, the nearest seating to the parking area. Then Ciro came over, grabbed my arm, and said, “Come here, I want you to meet someone.” As he pulled me up, he pointed toward a woman in a red jumpsuit across the tent and said, “That’s Michel’s wife, I want you to meet her.”

At that moment, everything went black, the room fell silent. I felt the universe zoom in on my face and I stuttered out, “…Wife?” Michel, in all the time I’d known him, had never mentioned being married. Now, Ciro was dragging me by the wrist straight toward her — I was being led to my execution. She was at the far end of the tent, arranging something on a podium that might as well have been a guillotine. Everything was in slow motion like I was in an evolutionary flight or fight kill or be killed prehistoric scenario. I chose flight.

Without thinking, I just stopped my feet, and shouted out: “RON HAS DIABETES.” Ciro stopped, confused, and stared at me. “What?” he asked, but I was already pulling my wrist away saying, “I gotta go.” I rushed over to Ron, grabbed him, and blurted out, “You have diabetes RIGHT?” Ron, confused just repeated back slowly “I. Have. Diabetes. ” And as I was yanking him towards the edge of the tent viewing that as my exit to freedom, thunder crashed, lightning flashed, and a wall of rain poured down, trapping us inside. The rains had come back.

Thankfully, Ciro didn’t seem to notice the absurdity of all of this and wandered off elsewhere.

Ron and I eventually escaped and decided to go to the racetrack to place a few bets, only stopping for me to pick up a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in two years.

On the drive home, I told Ron I was done with Michel. I realized I had seen his wife before — she had been at a few of our parties, but I had assumed she was just someone’s friend. Michel never so much as glanced in her direction, let alone acknowledged her existence. And those kids I saw with him at Mashomack? Those were his kids — children he had never once mentioned.

A couple of nights later, on the evening of June 30th, I had a dream that a snake and I were in love. One day while we were in the jungle the snake told me to let it go into the trees. I said no, knowing that if I released it, it wouldn’t come back. The snake insisted it would just sit in the branches, so I let it go. But as soon as I did, it reached for a distant branch, high in the trees, and vanished into the jungle. I just stood there as it stretched out and slithered off until it disappeared. The dream was so hauntingly clear that I created an illustration to get it out of my mind. The next morning I felt like I was mourning a loss.

The Weeping Willows

A few days later I went back to the Greenwich Polo Club to ride. Maggie’s nose was still not fully healed and then something happened that made me suspect that this was not fully an accident. I was standing at the top of the hill with Michel waiting for Maggie to be brought to me. A woman, who must have been a long-time employee, drove up in her golf cart and chatted with Michel. When Carlitos brought Maggie to me as we stood on the hill at the edge of the field, the woman looked at Maggie, then at me, and asked, “What happened to her?” I repeated what Ciro had said: she ran into a fence. But Michel looked down, shuffled his feet, and turned away. It was the same look of shame I saw on his face when Ciro tried to sell Maggie to me at an inflated price.

Something else disturbed me that day: the new addition to our club, a girl I’ll call Skyler. She was young, talkative and very thin. Although she never admitted it, she gave indications that made me assume she had an eating disorder. From day one of us meeting, she seemed desperate to prove how much she had eaten that day, showing us all pictures of a large meal she’d made and saying her low body weight was due to various medical conditions that I didn’t believe she actually had. Her insistence on convincing us she wasn’t thin from starvation only made it more obvious that she was.

What bothered me even more was how unbothered Ciro and Michel were by her appearance. When I saw her riding, I was concerned for her safety, she did not look well at all. I was even more concerned when she told me she just had surgery for breast implants and was riding against the instructions of her surgeon. This behavior of underweight riding after a major operation was both reckless and dangerous with potentially deadly consequences. When the three of us were alone, I told Ciro that she shouldn’t be riding in the club. “Why?” he asked. I looked at Michel for backup, he was always portraying himself as the nice one of the two, but all he offered, in a tone of excitement like he was answering a game show question was, “oh, I know why! She’s anorexic.”

Ciro, unfazed, shrugged and said, “Polo will help that.” When I told Ciro she could go into cardiac arrest on the field his response was “I made her sign a waiver.”

Skyler’s. mother, I’ll call her Jennifer, came to the field to watch her daughter ride a week or so later. She was friendly, funny and upbeat, but I could tell she was concerned about her daughter. I was led to believe that they were from an affluent New England family because they reminded us of their wealth and connections frequently —not in a boastful way, but in a manner that suggested a deep need to belong.

That boasting wouldn’t fall to the wind, Ciro started sniffing around immediately when he picked up their money’s scent.

The Patron Trap

When it was just Ciro and me one evening at the field, after Skyler and her mother had left Ciro sidled up to me and said “how much do you think I can get out of them? I think I can get $200,000. I’m going to charge her $200,000 to be in the club.”

After that, I started hearing Ciro call Skyler “patrona” behind her back, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she realized she was essentially sponsoring the entire club or if she’d been misled into believing polo was simply that expensive. Ciro and Michel quickly began enjoying the perks of their new patrona, much like they had with Sugar Daddy, who was set to join us any day now.

Skyler and Jennifer seemed to thrive on their newfound attention in the club, and I believe Ciro and Michel picked up on this and exploited it. Skyler had told us all on many occasions that she had no friends. From what I saw, her and her mom used Polo United for more than an extravagant polo club; it seemed this was their opportunity to belong somewhere, to be part of something that made them feel important. They started inviting Ciro and Michel on outings, to their private clubs, and likely on weekend trips to Manhattan.

What Ciro and Michel also enjoyed was a self-imposed professional fee for Skyler to play in their pseudo-matches. To justify the price of her membership, they orchestrated private matches at the Greenwich Polo Club, with no spectators, where they starred alongside Skyler and one other chosen polo professional who Ciro hooked into this venture. One of these professionals was Mariano Aguerre.

Mariano Aguerre, once a 10-goaler — the highest level in polo — was a name I had never heard before coming to Greenwich. Though he was once among the best players in the world, his handicap had since dropped to a 6. A legendary player but as everyone remarks, “he’s older now.” Still, Ciro capitalized on Mariano’s reputation. Ciro offered me the “opportunity” to play a private match with Mariano on the pristine fields of Greenwich Polo Club, first for $7,000 and then for $10,000. And of course Ciro didn’t miss the opportunity to shoehorn himself and Michel into a match on their favorite field, for $5,000 each.

$20,000 is a lot to just hit a ball for an hour with three people I hadn’t even heard of six months ago. And while Mariano might be a legend to Ciro, to me he’s no more significant than the person standing next to me in a grocery store checkout line. I did end up playing a match with him one time, but I have reason to believe it may have been on Skyler’s dime because I certainly didn’t pay for it.

Neither Skyler nor I needed to play in a star-studded match like this. What we needed was consistent, quality instruction from the men we had already paid memberships to. But the inclusion of these high-profile players wasn’t about improving our skills; it was about crafting an elite illusion. Ciro used these celebrity players as bait, justifying astronomical fees and perpetuating the idea that we were part of something prestigious and exclusive. In reality, as beginners, playing with elite professionals did little to help us progress in the sport. From what I saw, these matches were not about learning; they were about creating a spectacle — a justification for the enormous sums of money they could charge.

At this point, I began to understand how Ciro had navigated from being a no-name 2-goal player, struggling to find a spot on a professional team, to positioning himself within the elite circle of the Greenwich Polo Club. I recalled when we first arrived at the field some weeks ago, Michel gazed across the pristine grounds and said to all of us, “Wow! How did Ciro get us here?” But the truth was, he knew — it wasn’t a mystery. It was a calculated move, a concerted effort on Ciro’s part to bring wealthy clients, “Patrons,” to a failing operation.

Out of the rathole and into the palace

Understanding Ciro’s strategy required looking back at his earlier moves, particularly how he brought Sugar Daddy into this. With his deep pockets and eagerness to play the role of a polo patron, Sugar Daddy was exactly the type of client Ciro targeted to give Polo United an air of exclusivity at the Greenwich Polo Club.

As Skyler and Sugar Daddy, the two ‘patrons’, emerged, it became clear that the goal wasn’t to elevate the club to a professional standard. The lack of structure, pricing tailored to each client’s perceived financial threshold, and the blatant preferential treatment made me suspect the aim was to fabricate the appearance of an elite operation, luring those willing to pay for the illusion of prestige — and making large sums of cash in the process.

But Skyler and Sugar Daddy were not true patrons in the traditional sense. A real polo patron owns a team, selects the players, funds the operations, and often owns the horses. They control the matches and tournaments their team participates in. Skyler and Sugar Daddy, by contrast, were simply customers — paying for an expensive illusion. They didn’t control or own a polo team any more than a kid playing fantasy football owns the Dallas Cowboys. Instead, they were paying exorbitant fees for what amounted to little more than a vanity project.

An example of this was how Ciro charged Sugar Daddy thousands just to rent his horses for sporadic matches. A typical horse rental would usually be a couple hundred dollars, often including a lesson, but Ciro was exploiting Sugar Daddy’s ignorance to the highest order. I knew about the fee because Ciro boasted to me directly that he was charging Sugar Daddy “40k rent.”

Sugar Daddy’s involvement was a textbook case of manipulation. He was granted a veneer of prestige — designing his own jersey and naming it after his company — while being showered with artificial accolades for his polo “career” in press articles, which I believe Ciro funded using his Polo United dues. This manufactured recognition was less about genuine achievement and more about crafting a charade to inflate his ego. The so-called “team” and likely staged press coverage were calculated moves to convince him he was part of something elite. However, from what I saw, he and Skyler were just being used to fund the operations of Polo United and bolster Ciro and Michel’s lifestyle.

A Game of Vanity

When Sugar Daddy arrived at the polo club in July, the spectacle reached its peak. A match was arranged between Sugar Daddy’s and Skyler’s “teams”. Each patron’s team consisted of professionals whose trailers of horses lined the field, and a photographer was hired to capture the event. Private and without spectators, Ciro made sure to play up all of the fanfare of a prestigious tournament — minus any real competition. The professionals gently tapped the ball to their patrons, who rode around, oblivious to the actual rules of the game. Even the referee seemed indifferent.

What stood out in this otherwise dull match was Ciro’s inability to stay in the background. Despite this being the patrons’ moment, he couldn’t resist making it about himself. On more than one occasion, I watched him dash off with the ball, leaving his patron struggling to keep up. Ciro had to be the star of the show, even when it was supposed to be about the patrons.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the great 2 goaler, Ciro Desenzani

Outside of these staged private matches, the rest of us in Polo United participated in what were called “test matches” or “coaching chukkers.” These matches were sold as learning experiences where we’d play together as a club, “patrons” included, but in reality, they were just another way to cater to Skyler and Sugar Daddy. The rest of us were there to support their vanity, playing a secondary role in their fantasy.

During these test matches, it was obvious who was prioritized. The ball was constantly fed to Skyler and Sugar Daddy, and they were always set up for easy, staged goals. When they’d tap the ball in from a few feet away, Ciro and Michel would heap on the praise, making it seem like they were achieving something great. Meanwhile, when I managed a complex trick shot or an assist, it went completely unnoticed.

We ride alone

But the differential treatment wasn’t just in the praise — it was in the harshness, too. One day, I had to console one of the younger members, a child, after Ciro had berated her so belligerently during a match that she started crying. I told her, “Don’t worry. Ciro is a sniveling little asshole.” She tried to justify his psychopathic abuse by saying instructors can be tough, I pointed out the double standard: “Do you see him talking that way to Skyler or Sugar Daddy? You’re a much better rider than Skyler, and her and Sugar Daddy make far more mistakes than you, and dangerous ones at that, but he never yells at them.”

After that, Ciro and I got into an argument on the field. Ciro doesn’t seem to grasp how to instruct during a match, so when he started shrieking nonsensical bullshit at me like a banshee on her period, I stopped Maggie and just stared him down. He nervously asked why I was doing that, but I didn’t respond. When the match was over, I got an inch from his face and told him to watch his tone with me — this was his final warning. He tried to justify himself, claiming that shouting was part of his “teaching method,” and needed so I could hear him from across the field, like my issue was just about volume. I told him to find a new method when it came to me. Then he said if I didn’t like his “teaching style,” I could always get instruction from Michel, but warned my polo playing would suffer because, in his words, “Michel isn’t half the teacher I am.”

When I simply replied, “Good, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” and turned to walk away, Ciro immediately backtracked, apologizing and begging me to reconsider, pleading for me to stay.

These issues just made it clear in my mind that these test matches weren’t designed to help us learn or improve. They were staged for the patrons — catering to their egos. We were there to prop them up, nothing more.

Within Polo United, Ciro and Michel had seemingly crafted a near-perfect pyramid to structure their polo scheme. At the top were their wealthy “patrons”, paying exorbitant fees for an experience that, despite the fancy packaging, was essentially the same as what everyone else received, save for a vanity match here and there. Beneath them, supporting the structure, were the rest of us — still paying steep prices but nowhere near the inflated sums charged to the patrons.

This wasn’t polo; it was a farce. The lack of instruction or structure, combined with the inherent dangers of the sport, revealed the truth: Polo United was about one thing — extracting as much money as possible from people while delivering a hollow and dangerous experience.

A Lame Lie

After playing along with Ciro’s charade for months, my patience reached its breaking point when I saw what he had done to Maggie. After telling Ciro Maggie was declining mentally and physically and needed some of that alleged professional training I was supposed to be getting for free, Ciro had told me he was going to play her in a match at White Birch Farms. When I arrived at the farm, I saw Maggie standing next to the trailer, and my stomach wrenched. Her leg was all busted up — swollen, bruised, and clearly in pain. Neither Ciro nor the groom, Carlitos, seemed to notice or care. Carlitos was even preparing to ride her to warm her up. I stopped him immediately, saying, “You’re not riding her like that.”

Ciro walked over, acting as if nothing was wrong. I turned to him and said, “You don’t seriously see anything wrong with her leg right now?” He brushed it off, and I asked the same thing again, and finally, he asked me to walk her. After a few steps, even he had to admit she was lame. He bent down, palpating her leg in a dismissive manner, and in a sneering tone, said, “Your horse is in a lot of pain.”

I felt the rage build inside me at that moment, I bent over getting an inch from his face, my eyes about to pop out of my head, “WHY is she in a lot of pain?” Ciro, quickly backpedaled. “Ok, ok,” he stammered, “one of the horses probably just kicked her in the trailer, it happens all the time. Just go to the store and get a specialized cream called Furacin, and I’ll put it on. She’ll be fine.” I rushed to the store, bought the cream, and brought it back and put it on Maggie.

Maggie’s swollen leg

A few days later, I arrived at the Greenwich Polo club in the mid afternoon. I complained to Ciro and Michel about the situation with Maggie. I told them how Maggie is my only horse and how I wasn’t happy with how in 2 weeks she has had two major injuries. I was considering taking her back home to Florida and joining a new club.

They responded with a mix of explanations and assurances. Horses get injured all the time, they said, a statement that mirrored my experience as a racehorse owner. They acknowledged being short-staffed and suggested this might have contributed to Maggie’s injuries, but they were quick to apologize and promised they were addressing the issue. They assured me procedures were being put in place to prevent it from happening again.

Even with their reassurances, I remained uneasy, torn between my growing concern for Maggie and a reluctance to act impulsively. Maggie and I were alone, far from home, and any decision to leave would be neither simple nor quick, and I kept questioning myself if I was overreacting to what I was promised was an isolated accident.

To leave or not leave, that was the question.

After riding a horse that wasn’t mine for my practice I arrive back at the cottage around 5PM, I wanted to think about everything that was going on, and start researching other polo clubs, but then I received a message from Michel, the first one since I arrived in Greenwich 2 weeks ago

“Hey you at home?”

What a gentleman.

Later that evening as Michel was leaving and I was putting my clothes back on, he asked me if I would be at the field tomorrow. I said yes.

The Ghost Horse of Argentina

Maggie’s injuries weighed on me and I became anxious about my future in polo. I told Ciro bluntly, “If anything happens to Maggie, I’m done.” The school horses Polo United offered were subpar — clumsy, needing constant kicks, with boxy canters that made riding a chore. They required more skill than I had. Without Maggie I had no will to continue.

I decided to extend my stay in Connecticut because I did not want Maggie up there alone, and my landlord lengthened my lease at the North Stamford cottage for another four weeks.

Maggie healed, and I kept a vigilant watch on her treatment to make sure no future “accidents” occurred. I made sure she was loaded last on the trailer, and first to get off and that she was away from the other horses when on the field. I was in a predicament because I was an outsider to polo with few connections, so packing up Maggie and leaving was not a simple task, horse transport takes weeks and thousands of dollars to arrange, and we had nowhere else to go at this point. So all I could do for the time being was to make sure Maggie was being cared for, and since I confronted Ciro and Michel, it seemed for now everything was fine.

A couple of weeks later, Ciro sent me an image of a horse. “Better than Maggie,” he claimed, “the perfect horse for you.” She was in Argentina, resting on a farm, but could be brought to me in Greenwich for $25,000 plus about $10,000 shipping. Ciro assured me that if she were in the U.S., she’d easily fetch twice that or more.

Ciro told me the horse was located on a farm owned by Alfredo and Facundo Goti, two names that meant nothing to me, much like when he dropped Memo Gracida’s name while trying to sell me Tully. He said he’d speak to them to discuss the sale.

I wanted another horse. Playing more often would help me improve faster, and the idea of owning a horse even better than Maggie was tempting. I told Ciro to get me the veterinary check to ensure the horse was sound, and once that happens I’d have the money for him by the end of the week. He assured me he’d organize the vet check to prove the horse was healthy. That was Monday, July 22.

By Tuesday, Ciro claimed the sale was confirmed. He said he was “sending some money” and would pick up the horse for exams, which would cost $500 — though he assured me it wasn’t really necessary. But I knew better. A vet check is always necessary when buying a horse.

Friday, July 26, Ciro said the horse was going to “his place” in Argentina, and the vet would prepare the report, which would be ready the following week.

Later that day, Ciro claimed he had already paid a $10,000 deposit and that the vet report was done, with everything coming back fine. But despite his earlier promises, I had yet to see any documentation — not a vet report, not a bill of sale, nothing to prove this horse even existed. All I had were Ciro’s words and a few photos. I asked for basic documentation: a bill of sale, the vet report, and a written agreement on when the horse would ship.

Ciro fired back that this “wasn’t what we agreed on.” He insisted he’d sent a $10,000 deposit and that if I needed paperwork, I should’ve asked earlier. He claimed he couldn’t get a bill of sale but said if I wanted paperwork, he could get it to me in an hour — though we had to act fast because the horse was about to be loaded onto a trailer “to his place.”

But then, the story shifted again. Now, he said he had only paid $3,000 but needed to send $10,000 immediately. The urgency was growing more suspicious by the minute.

He continued to twist things, saying he didn’t understand why I was asking for paperwork now, claiming I was “surprising” him with this request. He complained that needing a contract was complicating things and delaying the sale, as he owed the Gotis $10,000. He brushed me off, saying we’d discuss it after our match the next day.

The more I thought about it, the more bizarre it all seemed. Asking for documentation when purchasing a horse — or anything for that matter — is completely normal. It’s the first thing I requested when the horse was offered: get me the vet report, and we’ll move forward with the sale.

Two things didn’t add up: If the horse was just resting on a farm with no pressing timeline, why the rush to put down a $10,000 deposit? She wasn’t in any league play or active training, and wouldn’t be for months. And if the vet check was already in motion — as Ciro had led me to believe all week — why was there now confusion about needing the report?

Stranger still, when I examined the pictures he sent to me of the horse, it looked like he sent me photos of two different horses, claiming it was the same one.

The horse on the left has a star on its face, while the one on the right has a white blaze

Adding to the confusion over the identity of the horse, Ciro was not able to conclusively provide me with a name for the horse. He said “we have been calling her Varita” but the lack of certainty was another concern for me.

It felt exactly like the lie about the house in Greenwich all over again. The pattern was the same: “I’m getting it,” then “it’s done,” and finally “I never did it, and I don’t understand why you need it.”

And then it hit me… is Ciro trying to scam me on a horse?

I was pacing around my room, asking that question over and over again, and then I stopped when my phone buzzed. It was a message from Cipher, the groom who had mysteriously disappeared back in May. His message was long but clear — there was more to Ciro than I knew. And what he had to say was enough to bring everything crashing down.

Next time, Part III: Archangel’s Return

Resources

Related profile: Zoe Cookson
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Topics: Ciro Desenzani, Michel Dorignac, Polo, Polo United, Taqueada Polo