Chapter 2 - The Whispers in the East Wing
The East Wing guest suite smelled of cedar, lavender, and old money. For Mara, who had spent the last two months sleeping beneath a canvas tarp behind an abandoned auto-repair shop on the outskirts of Syracuse, the king-sized bed with its goose-down duvet felt like a cloud that might swallow her whole.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, wrapped in a plush white bathrobe that swallowed her small frame like a tent. On the floor beside her, stretched out across the Persian rug with his heavy chin resting on his paws, lay Umbral. He had refused to leave her side during the medical examination, emitting a low, threatening growl every time Dr. Evans tried to take Mara's temperature.
The doctor had wisely decided to diagnose her from a distance of six feet.
The door clicked open, and Dominic stepped into the room. He had changed out of his formal evening suit into a dark cashmere sweater and trousers. In his hands, he carried a silver tray holding a bowl of steaming chicken broth, buttered toast cut into small squares, and a mug of hot cocoa with miniature marshmallows floating on top.
He set the tray down on the mahogany nightstand, keeping his movements slow and deliberate so as not to startle either the child or the beast guarding her.
"Dr. Evans says you have mild hypothermia and calorie deprivation," Dominic said, pulling a velvet armchair closer to the bed and sitting down. "He prescribed rest, vitamins, and about ten pounds of solid food over the next week."
Mara looked at the tray, her stomach giving a loud, embarrassing rumble. But she didn't reach for the food immediately. Her eyes flicked up to Dominic's face, searching for the hidden trap. In her experience, adults didn't give away hot soup and warm beds without expecting a piece of your soul in return.
"Why am I here?" she asked, her voice raspy from the cold. "You could have locked me in the security shed. Or called the county social services."
"County social services in this state are a revolving door of bureaucratic neglect," Dominic replied smoothly. "And as for the security shed—well, Umbral would have chewed through the steel door to get back to you within twenty minutes, and I'd rather avoid repairing my property twice in one week."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying her with the intense, clinical focus that had made him a titan in the corporate and underground worlds alike.
"Tell me about your mother, Mara."
The girl's hands tightened around the fluffy fabric of the bathrobe. "Her name was Elena Vance. No relation to that bad man, Colonel Vance. She was a breeder of working-line Cane Corsos. She raised them for search-and-rescue and estate protection in the Green Mountains. When I was four, men with guns came to our house. They said my father owed debts he couldn't pay. They said the dogs belonged to the syndicate now."
"And Umbral?" Dominic asked quietly.
"He was my birthday present," Mara whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "Mother taught me his secret name before they took him away. She told me that some bonds are forged in blood and bone, and no amount of shock collars or military training could ever erase a true master's voice."
Dominic sat back in his chair, a deep, contemplative crease forming between his brows. The pieces of the puzzle were clicking together, but they painted a picture that troubled him. Colonel Vance was one of Dominic's primary security contractors—a ruthless ex-mercenary who managed the syndicate's training facilities in the Adirondacks. If Vance had stolen prize-winning breeding stock from independent sanctuaries under the guise of debt collection, it meant Vance was running private, off-the-books operations using Dominic's name and resources as cover.
"You said he belonged to a sanctuary," Dominic said. "Tell me where."
Before Mara could answer, a sharp, urgent knock rattled the heavy oak door of the suite.
Without waiting for permission, DeMarco pushed the door open, his face pale and tense. He locked eyes with Dominic, then glanced uneasily at the child.
"Boss," DeMarco said, his voice dropping into a tight whisper. "We've got a situation at the front gates. Colonel Vance just arrived with four tactical units. He says our perimeter sensors picked up an illegal trespasser, and he's demanding immediate entry to search the grounds and secure the animal."
Dominic's eyes narrowed into slits of absolute ice. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Vance is here at two in the morning?" Dominic asked softly.
"He says he tracked the thermal signature from the southern fence line," DeMarco replied. "And boss... he brought his private legal counsel and a state wildlife control officer. He has a repossession warrant for the Cane Corso, signed by a magistrate in Albany."
Mara looked up at Dominic, her small face suddenly drained of all color, her eyes wide with absolute terror. "He's come to kill him," she whispered. "He told my mother that if the dog ever disobeyed his handlers again, he'd put him down like a rabid wolf."
Dominic stood up slowly. The easy, conversational tone vanished completely, replaced by the crushing, terrifying aura of the underworld kingpin who controlled half the shipping lanes on the East Coast.
"DeMarco," Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal register. "Tell Vance that he is standing on private property. Tell him his warrant is garbage because my estate counsel will invalidate it before sunrise. And tell him that if he takes one step past the outer security fountain..."
May you like
Dominic paused, casting a cold glance toward the heavy oak door.
"...he won't need wildlife control. He'll need a coroner."
