I Took 3 Months Off of OUMERE to Hunt the International Con Men Behind an Elite Polo Ponzi Scheme Part IV: Into the Forest

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

Part III of the story can be read here

My Kingdom for a Horse

Maggie lost a shoe on the field, and I think this sparked fear in Ciro. Just days earlier, I had accused him of neglecting the horses, letting them go months without proper shoeing, along with other allegations of animal mistreatment.

The next day, I received a message from Michel Dorignac saying Maggie had been re-shod, accompanied by a video from the farm. I was suspicious about who had taken the video. Like Ciro, I doubted that Michel regularly visited the Brewster farm. I played it up, thanking him so much for caring for Maggie, I needed them to think everything was ok, and that I wasn’t secretly planning my exit.

Later that day, I went to the field to ride Maggie. At the bottom of the hill where the horse trailers were parked, I saw a pickup truck with a man standing beside it, a farrier, shoeing a horse. When I reached the top of the hill, Jennifer was there to watch Skyler ride. Ciro made a show of the farrier being there, proudly announcing that he’d hired him from the Hamptons to shoe all the horses that day.

It was obvious that this was a performance — meant to show everyone that the horses were being cared for. There was no real reason to shoe the horses at the polo club, which didn’t even have its own stables, when it could’ve easily been done at their home farm in Brewster, out of sight. The whole display was meant to send a message.

I decided to send a message of my own, one that symbolized change. I cut a foot off my hair.

Preparing for our exit, I visited a friend up north to see if he could bring Maggie to his polo club in upstate New York. He agreed without issue, but then, without my consent, he called Michel to tell him my plan to bring Maggie there. That night, Michel called me.

He asked what was going on and why I was moving Maggie. I said, “You don’t know?” He claimed he had no idea, and I believed him. “Felony fraud? How about that?” I said. “Don’t you know what Ciro did in California? Don’t you know what happened to Juan?” Michel claimed complete innocence. I warned him to be careful — because if Ciro was committing felonies with this scam, he could get caught up in it because Michel is an owner of Polo United too. Michel promised he knew nothing and asked me to hold off on moving Maggie until we could talk the next day. I agreed.

Two-Face

The next day, I met Michel at the perimeter of the field. He complimented my new haircut, telling me that now I looked 20 instead of 28. The flattery worked (I’m not in my 20's), but I was focused on setting things straight. I laid out everything I knew about Ciro Desenzani’s past, his lies, and his scams. Michel just listened, acting surprised by new information.

Then I asked, “Why are you in business with this guy? He’s a nobody. You’re a legitimate player — do you really need money that badly?” Michel’s smile quickly faded, and he mumbled something about money always being tight. I told him, “I’ll help you get out of this. I want my own polo team, and I can hire you. You don’t need to do dirty business to make it. If you want to start your own business, I’ll help you, but you need to break away from Polo United. If anyone asks from now on you’re just an employee, right? Not an owner? You get what I mean?” Michel seemed to agree with the plan, even asking questions about what to do, and then confessed to me that he had no savings.

Then Michel made an admission that stuck with me. Michel said that he saw that Ciro wasn’t feeding the horses enough, and he stepped in and showed him what to give the horses and how much.

But then Ciro saw us talking. He rushed up the hill and interrupted, asking what we were discussing. I made something up, and he pulled me aside again for another one of his “talks” — really just more attempts to convince me that everything was fine. This time, Michel joined in. As Ciro spewed his usual lies about California being a misunderstanding, not owing anyone money, and Juan’s horse being on its way, Michel kept giving me knowing glances as if to say, “I know, I’m on your side, don’t worry.” When Ciro finished, I simply said, “Right,” and walked away. Michel did too.

Michel and I rode together that afternoon, and given this newfound trust I thought we had just established, I opened up about my perspective on life. I told him how I did my best to live with purpose and that I didn’t see life as one big Black Friday sale, just scrambling to collect as much worthless shit as possible before the end. I shared that if I had only wanted wealth, I could have married the billionaire I dated back in California, moved to Dubai, and called it a “life.” But that sort of empty existence isn’t for me. I live for meaning, not material things. I’d rather be penniless and know I made a difference than live as some tycoon’s concubine property with a Birkin bag and a Bentley.

Michel listened and then told me a story about how when he was just beginning to sell horses as a 20 year old, he accidentally sold someone a pregnant horse in Argentina, and how he took the horse back at his own expense to protect the reputation of his young horse business. We laughed about it and kept riding.

At that point, I believed Michel was truly on my side — that he was another victim in this mess, being taken for a ride. But I didn’t realize until later that it was me who was being taken for a ride.

“Why should I hide who I am?”

A few days later, I asked Michel if he could help me arrange to get Maggie out of Brewster. He agreed, but the promise never materialized, and kept getting deferred, which I thought was odd, wasn’t he on my side for the escape plan out? I was also unsettled by the fact that my offer to help him transition to a more honest polo career was never mentioned again. Something wasn’t adding up.

I started to think about who Michel really was. He was practically born on a horse, coming from a polo family where horse care was second nature, passed down through generations. How could someone with his background not notice the condition of the horses? A child in our club had once mentioned to me that the difference between Mariano Aguerre’s horses and Polo United’s was like night and day. She admired Aguerre’s horses for their great physique, while she said Ciro and Michel’s horses looked subpar by comparison. For weeks, the horses had looked underfed to me, too, but my concerns were constantly brushed off with vague excuses from Ciro.

Michel knows horse care better than Ciro. He is a far more experienced horseman. It was impossible that he could look at those horses — with their low energy and underweight bodies — and think they were fine, I didn’t even think they were fine and I know nothing about horses compared to Michel. He had to have seen the neglect in their feet, in their overall condition.

Then I remembered that remark he said a few days ago about how the feeding wasn’t being done properly until he stepped in. But nothing had really changed until I stepped in.

I kept turning it over in my mind, trying to dismiss the thought, but I couldn’t…It was true. Michel knew. He knew all along.

I reached out to my informant and asked about the state of the Taqueada Polo Club in California. Michel had assured me, back that one afternoon at my cottage, it was still in operation because he had convinced Ciro to keep it going. My informant told me otherwise, Taqueada was defunct — shuttered, completely abandoned.

The betrayal cut deep; the entire time, I had been lying with the enemy. Michel wasn’t a bystander or a reluctant participant; he was fully complicit. The “good cop” act was part of a well-rehearsed good cop bad cop routine to keep the illusion intact, a way to make us believe there was someone we could trust. With his reputation and easygoing charm, Michel played the role of the confidant, the approachable one, the man who would listen when Ciro was being unreasonable. But now it was clear that his friendly demeanor was just a mask. The real Michel was feeding my concerns straight back to Ciro, using my trust as leverage in their scheme.

It wasn’t just Ciro’s lies that burned — it was the realization that Michel had been right there, fueling the deception, making sure I believed in their fraudulent operation while he stood to profit just as much.

I played it cool for several days, pretending like nothing was wrong. When Michel messaged me about a match or anything polo-related, I acted as if all was normal. But I was only putting on a show because I feared for Maggie’s safety. We still had nowhere to go.

On Thursday, August 22nd, I went to the field to play chukkers, and as I looked at Maggie and the other horses, the weight of everything hit me. These noble animals were playing a beautiful sport, yet the sinister, greedy and depraved acts of lesser mortals had turned it into an abusive sham. I couldn’t keep up the facade anymore.

I played the chukkers and walked Maggie back to the trailer, keeping to myself. I didn’t say much to anyone before or during the game; I just wanted to get through it and leave.

After the match, I sat in my car, taking off my boots, hoping to be alone and make a quick exit. That’s when Michel came walking over just as I threw my left boot into the passenger seat.

As he walked over, a memory from a few months earlier flashed in my mind — when he and Ciro had tried to force me to ride Maggie in a lightning storm. I remembered mounting up, only to see bolts cracking the sky in the distance. I immediately got off, but instead of backing down, they led me into the clubhouse, where Ciro began pressuring me to find a sponsor for him and Michel, even telling me I couldn’t be a polo player if I didn’t get one. Throughout it all, Michel just sat there like a goon letting Ciro spew his broken English nonsense. I resented him in that moment as he just sat there like a silent accomplice while Ciro did the dirty work. But that’s what Michel was — always complicit in Ciro’s schemes because he stood to gain from them too. He didn’t care who got hurt in the process, myself included.

As Michel reached my car, a wave of repulsion washed over me, fueled by that memory and everything I’d since learned about him.

He stood by my door and said, “Hi Wendy.” Then he did something I’ll never forget.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, which may be true, I don’t know, I can’t always tell someone’s nature by their eyes. But what I do know is that I can see the evil in someone in their mouth. A few weeks prior I was out with my date, Frankie B., and we were at dinner. He was being an asshole, for sure, but honestly he was being an entertaining asshole, that’s what I liked about him, so I went with it. Yet, while he was talking about women’s rights (I know), I noticed a micro-expression — a quick, fleeting grimace in his mouth. It was like a demon’s silent howl. Later, I found out he had embezzled millions from his company and committed additional felonies to cover it up.

When Michel approached my car, said hi, and gave me that slow smile, I didn’t see him anymore — I saw the velociraptor from Jurassic Park in the cold, steel kitchen, ready to hunt down those kids. Its mouth slowly opening, revealing rows of sharp, yellowed, salivating teeth as it locked onto its prey.

I closed my car door. He tapped on the window, still smiling but confused. I rolled the window down an inch and said, “I don’t want to talk to you.” He asked why, and I replied, “Because I’m mad at you.” His smile immediately turned into a frown. The only other time I saw him react that way was in July when we were on the field after a match. We were all standing together when Ciro casually mentioned to Michel that I was involved with another man. Michel’s face darkened, he looked down, and started to storm off, but then caught himself, realizing he couldn’t reveal our “secret.” He quickly returned to his spot, forced to stand there as Ciro went on about what a good time I was having with someone else.

Michel immediately began demanding answers — why was I mad, what was going on. It was clear he wasn’t used to being treated like this, thrown off by the sudden shift in control.

I’d had enough and I didn’t owe him an explanation. All I said was, “BYE MICHEL,” in a tone full of annoyance. He kept pressing, “No, tell me what’s going on,” but I just repeated, “BYE,” over and over, each time with an increasing tone of aggravation until I rolled up the window and drove off.

He called me later on, but I neither answered nor returned the call.

At that point, I realized I didn’t have much of a plan. I might have to hire a transport company to send Maggie back to Florida. To where, I didn’t know, maybe to the racetrack with my other horses until I could find a new spot. But I figured I’d play the match on Saturday at White Birch and then figure things out from there.

Day 191

I arrived at White Birch Farms which is a scenic, private polo field just across the street from the Greenwich Polo Club. The cars and trailers were parked close together right next to the field. I saw everyone sitting at the perimeter of the field so I geared up in my car so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Ciro noticed this immediately and started gesturing aggressively for me to come over and join everyone. I don’t come when some idiot beckons for me so I just ignored it.

But eventually, I had no choice — I had to head to the field. As I walked over, Ciro approached, asking why I was by myself. I brushed him off, saying I was just getting my gear on. He then tried a different tactic, saying he didn’t want anything between us. He gave me a tight hug, told me he loved me and said he wanted things to go back to how they were before, even suggesting we go out to lunch soon to straighten everything out. I said “ok, sure” and got on Maggie to start playing.

During the game, I made an immediate foul, crossing over the line of the ball and cutting off my opponent. The umpire blew the whistle, and we repositioned. I overheard the umpire ask Ciro, “Do you want me to let her know what she did so she can learn the rules?” Ciro just waved it off, saying, “No, I’ll take care of it later.”

I rode back to my position and Michel rode next to me and said “Hi Wendy” And I just muttered “hey” quickly and rode off. The chukker completed without any real instruction or guidance from either of my two instructors, par for the course as I have experienced these last several months.

The umpire blew the whistle to signal the end of the chukker and for everyone to switch horses.

Since I always stayed on Maggie, I remained on the field, hitting the ball around. The umpire, an older Dominican man of small stature, probably in his 70s, rode up to me. He began giving me tips. “I want you to do a forward shot, near side,” he said. I gave it a try, barely making it, but he encouraged me, “Do it again.” He explained how to adjust my swing, and I repeated the shot. “Full swing this time,” he urged, and I finally connected with the ball in a full shot. He gave a hearty laugh and told me to do it again.

I realized this 3 minutes of teaching was more instruction or attention than I have gotten in the last 3 months.

After the match I talked with the umpire to thank him for his instruction. He introduced himself as “Sensei” and he told me he was once a polo player, he played for 36 years. We chatted for a bit and he seemed like an interesting guy, friendly with a bit of sass. I don’t remember exactly how I broached the subject but I mentioned needing to find Maggie a new place to live. He said “come to my farm, it is in North Salem, I think you will like it there.” I had no idea where North Salem was but I needed to find a spot for Maggie and quick so I agreed, and I was on my way shortly after the match finished.

The drive to North Salem wound through forests and along scenic country roads. I passed a placid lake with white swans and eventually arrived at the farm’s gate. The words on the gate read “Gotham Farm.” Now, I knew I had seen that word before…Gotham. I remember Michel being on a polo team with that name, but I figured maybe its one of those often used regional words. Kind of like “Arroyo” in California or “Mizner” in South Florida.

I drove into the farm and it had wide, green pastures, countryside, forests, horses and cows, and of course, a polo arena and fields. I drove up to a red barn and met with Sensei. He gave me a brief tour. Two men were playing polo at the arena down the hill and when they were done, they each gave their horses a shower. A sight I had never seen with Maggie under Ciro and Michel’s care.

Sensei told me all about the farm, and how they care for the horses and it was obvious this is where Maggie needed to be. I told Sensei I would like to bring her here and he agreed. He just said he needs to call the boss, the owner of Gotham first. Sensei got on the phone and asked him to come down.

A few minutes later an SUV pulls up, the window rolls down and I recognized the man inside, I saw him at Mashomack, it was Michel’s boss, the patron of Gotham Polo.

Of all the gin joints in all the world.

The Boss was very welcoming, and gave me a tour of the property, even introducing me to the babies, three young horses he was training to become polo ponies. He was a nice man and it was clear he loved horses, his farm and polo.

As he gave me a tour of the farm, I realized I needed to be honest. I didn’t want to start this arrangement under false pretenses, so I told him that Maggie had been under the care of Polo United. This did not seem to be an issue, and we arranged for Maggie to be picked up on Monday, just two days away.

As I drove home a sense of relief washed over me as I knew Maggie was going to be out of the grasp of Ciro and Michel very soon.

I sent Michel a message that evening that I met with [his boss], at Gotham farm and that Sensei will be picking Maggie up on Monday.

On Monday, Sensei and I drove to Brewster, gathered my gear, and took Maggie back to North Salem. The weight lifted off my shoulders as we drove away from Brewster and Polo United for good.

Later, a friend asked if I was worried about keeping Maggie at Gotham, given its connection to Michel. I thought about it, and it reminded me of a scene from The Dark Knight when Harvey Dent tells Rachel to go somewhere safe from The Joker. Rachel responds that now that the Joker is on the loose, Batman’s penthouse is now the safest place in the city. That’s how I felt about Gotham Farm.

The Brother and the Nazi Hunter

The next morning, I returned to Gotham early to watch a “hunt.” Members of the local hunter community, dressed in traditional fox hunting attire, had gathered at the farm, and, led by a pack of hounds, they rode off into the woods. As I watched them disappear, I struck up a conversation with The Boss’s brother, dressed plain as day, but a remarkably successful businessman with numerous ventures. He introduced me to his friend, “The Nazi Hunter”, who shared tales of tracking down and bringing some of history’s most monstrous figures to justice.

It was ironic, standing there listening to stories of justice served while reflecting on my dealings with the bad apples of Argentina — the very country that welcomed Nazi scum fugitives with open arms after the Holocaust. Here I was, meeting someone who hunted down those murderous vermin who cowardly fled justice and found refuge in a South American rathole. I liked him a lot for dragging them out.

The Brother was a good guy, and I opened up about my need to find a new place to live. Although I didn’t explain exactly why, it was because I was concerned about Michel knowing where I lived and possible retaliation. Now that Maggie was out of their clutches, I was going to notify everyone in the club about what I knew.

The Brother told me he had a spot, “very minimal” in a wooded property in Stormville, NY, about 30 minutes from the farm. I was intrigued, so the Nazi Hunter gave me a tour.

Minimal it was, but it was also perfect. A Stephen King-style cabin in the forest right on a lake on a beautiful rural property away from everyone and everything. The sleeping area was a loft above the kitchen and there was no cell phone reception inside. I left the North Stamford cottage and moved in.

My cabin in the woods

Training Day

The next morning, I went back to Gotham to see Maggie, and Sensei asked me to join him in the forest to exercise the horses. Sensei was an old cowboy who had grown up raising horses and cattle in the Dominican Republic, and at Gotham, he did much the same. Unlike Polo United, where the horses were kept in stalls or corrals, Sensei conditioned Gotham’s polo horses by taking them out into the forest each morning. But he needed help.

I got on Maggie and took hold of a lead rope attached to another mare, Gastona. Sensei led the way with three horses: Apaloosa, Macarena, and Gina. We crossed the polo fields and followed the trail into the dense forest.

The steep trails, with streams running alongside them, made me nervous. I hadn’t done this type of cowgirl riding before, but the challenge of keeping an eye on Maggie, making sure she didn’t step on a rock or stray too close to the stream, kept my mind occupied. Whenever there was too much silence, Sensei would glance back and ask, “How are we doing?”

As we passed through the tall trees, the morning sun filtered through the canopy. Sensei raised his hand and told me to grab it, then instructed me to stand up in the saddle. “I want your legs to be strong,” he said. It was a conditioning exercise to build strength for polo. I stood in the stirrups, balancing as best I could while we moved through the forest, leading the horses. I could manage about five seconds before coming back down, then tried again.

As we navigated a narrow opening between two trees, Sensei accidentally dropped Macarena’s lead rope. He asked me to grab it, but before I could, Macarena clamped onto Gina’s lead rope, and the two horses bolted off into the dense woods. “Let’s go!” Sensei shouted, and we tore after them. They quickly vanished from sight, forcing us to rely on the mud to track their movements. Sensei spotted the hoof marks and said they were heading back to the paddock. We charged through the forest, up hills, down narrow trails, weaving between trees, over piles of brush, and past streams. When we finally emerged on the forest’s edge, there they were, waiting calmly by their paddock, as if they’d planned their escape all along.

I was told to return to the farm at 4:30, and when I arrived, I saw that Sensei had arranged 30 polo balls in neat rows across the dirt arena. I mounted Maggie, and Sensei gave me simple instructions: “I don’t care if you miss every shot, as long as you keep going.” I took two laps around the arena to warm up, then approached the first ball and hit. I circled around and did it again, and again, until each ball had been struck and lay scattered in the grass beyond the arena’s perimeter. With every swing, Sensei provided feedback and encouragement, pushing me to improve.

Sensei and me in the Gotham arena

Afterward, we went back to the barn, shared a cold Modelo, and I led Maggie to her pasture, where her new best friend, Luna, another polo mare but with a bruised hoof, was waiting for her. I then returned to the cabin.

The cabin had no washer or dryer so I washed my clothes in the sink and hung them on these branches.

That night, I lay awake with a heavy burden pressing down on me. I knew things about Ciro and Michel that I couldn’t keep to myself any longer. The members of Polo United deserved to know the truth — that they were being scammed. What they chose to do with that information would be up to them, but I felt a duty to warn them about what they had gotten themselves into.

Paradise Lost

When I woke up that morning, I forgot I was sleeping in a loft, and as I rose too quickly, I slammed my forehead into the ceiling. The sharp sting in my head was nothing compared to the soreness in my back and legs from all the conditioning I’d done the day before.

When I arrived at Gotham, The Boss, Sensei, and JB wanted me to play a polo pickup game with them on the field. I was able to play for about two minutes before I felt like my muscles were going to secede from my spine and I had to tell them I would join them the next time. I was a bit ashamed of this because I wanted to show The Boss I could play fairly well and I felt like I looked like a wimp for giving up right away.

But no one seemed to mind, so I returned Maggie to Luna in the pasture. Then, I drove to the lake’s edge. It took a while to muster up the courage to send the messages. I was worried no one would believe me, or they would be angry with me. I took a few deep breaths and began.

I started with Karen, sending her a message saying I had seen some very disturbing things in Greenwich, including the neglect of Maggie, and that I was leaving the club. I waited for her response.

Next, I contacted Jennifer. I knew Skyler had bought a horse named Butterfly from Ciro, and just a few weeks earlier, I had witnessed Ciro trying to push a horse named Chaveta on Jennifer, despite her hesitations and concerns that Skyler should focus on college instead of polo. Although I wasn’t sure which horses Jennifer had or where they were stabled, I reached out because I was worried about their welfare. I told her I’d seen Maggie being neglected, that I had removed her from the Brewster farm, and advised her to relocate any horses she had with Ciro.

Then I reached out to Juan. I messaged him to let him know that he is not getting that horse in Argentina.

Juan responded right away, seemingly in shock. I told him there was no reason he shouldn’t have that horse he paid for by now. I was told by Cipher that Ciro lied to Juan and told him there was a quarantine for horses, barring their shipment out of Argentina, which was the reason he had not received his horse. I told Juan there was no such quarantine. I could tell he was surprised, caught off guard, but only thanked me for the information. He didn’t seem interested in learning more or in taking action to get his money back. He didn’t even question how I knew about his horse (he never disclosed this information to me). There was a kind of naivety in his response, a gullibility that I believe Ciro had long ago recognized and exploited.

I had even tried to warn Juan’s mother during her visit to Greenwich by casually mentioning that a “friend” had recently purchased 20 racehorses from Argentina and had been shipping them over for months, thinking it might spark some suspicion. When she just slack jaw gawked at me I flat out said that there was a good thing there is no quarantine in Argentina or my friend’s horses would never arrive. But it went right over her head. Even now, I suspect Juan still believes that horse is on its way.

Jennifer got back to me soon after. We spoke on the phone, and she confided that she had sensed something was wrong with Ciro and Michel. Members of the equestrian community had warned her to “not trust the Argentinians,” but she had gone against her instincts. She explained that the horses she purchased had significant issues — Chaveta had failed the vet check, and Butterfly had behavioral problems, making them unsuitable for polo. Despite these problems, Ciro had refused to refund her.

Jennifer was understandably upset, and I empathized with her. She had already been burned by the horse world when Skyler was involved in other equestrian sports, and she had approached polo with hesitation. But she gave it a shot, hoping it might bring her daughter peace. Instead, she found herself investing six figures into a scam.

Jennifer had been kind to Ciro and Michel, inviting them to her clubs, social events, and even her home. She didn’t deserve to experience this kind of betrayal again. I hated seeing a nice lady be taken advantage of like that.

I was relieved, however, when Jennifer told me she planned to take action. She seemed determined to get her money back and even considered going directly to Peter Brant, the owner of Greenwich Polo Club, to expose Ciro and Michel. But shortly after, I saw her attending a polo event at the Greenwich Polo Club, holding Ciro’s hand in a photo and cheering on a stage with Michel in another. It was disappointing to see her run back to them like that. I understand that she found companionship in Polo United, but I expected her to show more dignity than to seek attention from them again.

I heard back from Karen who expressed her existing concerns for the club. She had been pushed to purchase the $50,000 membership back in the spring. Ciro, she said, took her to a beautiful polo facility in Wellington, saying that he was going to be using that field for Polo United in the fall and he needed her membership paid for now so he could secure the field.

I remembered Ciro baiting us with tales of a beautiful polo facility back in the spring. I never saw the field.

Karen told me she’d been asking for a refund because Polo United was supposed to be back in operation, yet despite paying for a club that should have already been up and running in Wellington, Ciro and Michel were still lingering in Greenwich with no return date in sight. She also mentioned that they hadn’t secured a field in Florida — neither the new facility, Santa Clara, nor any other location. In truth, there was no club at all.

Then there was Sugar Daddy. What to do about him? He was living in a fool’s paradise, and I didn’t feel any obligation to inform him about what was really going on. Unlike the others, he didn’t have any horses in danger, or a child’s health at stake or a stolen retirement/college fund. To me, he was just a victim of his own vanity, someone who should have known better.

I checked Ciro’s location on my phone and saw he was at a restaurant in Greenwich. It wasn’t the usual Happiness Market, where he would spend hours alone every day — it was a nicer outdoor café. He must have been taken there. I knew he had a “match” with Sugar Daddy earlier that morning, so they were probably there together.

A few days earlier, my lawyer had sent Ciro a demand letter, instructing him to return my money. But I wanted to make sure he actually received it, I don’t know how reliable mail delivery is at the Comfort Inn, so I decided to deliver it in person.

I drove to downtown Greenwich and parked discreetly in an alley near the restaurant. Through my binoculars, I scanned the outdoor seating area until I spotted them — Ciro and Sugar Daddy — sitting at a small café nestled between two buildings. The tables were cramped and close to the street, leaving little room for privacy. Perfect for what I was about to do.

I gripped the large manila envelope under my arm and moved closer. Standing on the sidewalk, I was only about 20 feet away from their table, watching them go on completely unaware of my presence. Ciro’s back was to me, while Sugar Daddy sat across from him, deep in conversation. One of Sugar Daddy’s women was by his side, and next to Ciro was another man whose identity I couldn’t quite make out yet. I paused, letting the tension build, before making my move.

I paced for a few seconds and then I walked towards their table. As I approached, Sugar Daddy looked up, but must have been nervous to see me because instead of saying hi, he tried to talk to Ciro to alert him but couldn’t make out any words and just made a nervous head motion up to me. It was too late. I was looming over Ciro, standing right above him. Looking down at him. He then realized someone was standing next to him and he looked up right into my face.

Their entire table: Sugar Daddy, his woman, Ciro, and the man next to him, none other than former 10 goaler, Mariano Aguerre, all were looking at me. Mouths open, silent, wide eyed, wondering what I was going to do. All Ciro could muster out as he stared at me was a Tim Allen Home Improvement style “Uueeghhh?” I stared at him, he stared at me. I curled a little smirk and dropped my envelope in his plate. I turned around and like a phantom glided out of the restaurant.

The look on Ciro’s face was like this image of Tim Allen

As I was walking away the woman sitting at the table behind Ciro said “Oooh you got served buddy, you’re in trouble now!” It was really hard not to laugh.

Later, I tracked Ciro’s movements and saw that he scurried straight to the Greenwich Police. Not long after, I got a call from them. They told me Ciro had come in, claiming I was “scaring him” and that he wanted the police to protect him from me. But the officer assured me I hadn’t violated any laws and was well within my rights to deliver the letter the way I did.

Ciro and Michel underestimated me in more ways than one, including my connections in the polo world. They assumed that, because I was new, I didn’t know anyone beyond the circle they had created for me — but they were wrong. Every attempt they made to assassinate my character and spread lies behind my back came right back to me through the very people they confided in. Ciro even called someone in Argentina, unaware that I knew her, and claimed I had chased him and Michel into a van. I’m still curious to hear what I did to them next in this tale.

Van owned by Lawrence Bittaker

Meanwhile, Michel was spreading rumors that I left because I couldn’t afford their so-called membership “fee” and mentioned to someone that he was considering having The Boss to kick me and Maggie out of Gotham, as though he had that power. Of course, that person immediately relayed the information to me, knowing the real reason why I left. It was a classic tactic — fabricating lies to discredit anyone who threatened to expose their schemes.

What they also didn’t realize was that their reputation in the polo world was already in tatters. Everyone knew they were liars and cheats, despite all their efforts to maintain a facade of respectability. Somehow, they believed their past misdeeds hadn’t caught up with them — that the layers of deception could still cover the dirt. But the truth was already out there, long before I arrived.

I went back to the cabin, I had an early morning of training in the woods with Sensei and polo playing in the afternoon when my phone buzzed. It was Cipher, my informant. He had someone in California I needed to talk to.

Next time, Part V: As Tyrants Fall

Resources

If you have been victimized or were witness to a crime the following resources are available to report it

FBI Tip Line: https://tips.fbi.gov/home

Security and Exchange Tip Line: https://www.sec.gov/submit-tip-or-complaint/tips-complaints-resources/report-suspected-securities-fraud-or-wrongdoing

ICE Tip Line: https://www.ice.gov/tipline

IRS Tip Line: https://www.irs.gov/forms-pubs/about-form-3949-a

Human Trafficking Hotline: https://humantraffickinghotline.org/en/report-trafficking

Disclaimer:

The resources provided are for individuals seeking to report crimes or suspicious activities. No assumptions or conclusions are drawn about the guilt or innocence of the individuals mentioned unless proven by a court of law. This information is intended to assist those who may have been affected in reporting their experiences to the appropriate authorities.