Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Red Heel
Molly didn’t listen to the sous chef. She couldn't. The mastiff’s eyes were locked onto hers, holding a heavy, silent plea that felt like an anchor dropping into her soul. When the dog's front legs completely gave out, his massive head hitting the linoleum with a dull thud, Molly moved.
She dropped to her knees, ignoring the grease on the kitchen floor. The dog's coat was wet, matted with blood from a deep gash near his shoulder. Without a second thought, Molly scooped her arms under his heavy, trembling body. She was small, but adrenaline gave her a strength she didn't know she possessed.
"Molly, stop! Are you crazy?" the dishwasher yelled, but she was already pushing through the heavy double doors into the east dining room.
The transition from the hot, chaotic kitchen to the quiet luxury of the private banquet was jarring. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over forty guests dressed in diamonds and tailored suits. At the center of the head table sat Libby Kemp, looking like a queen in a scarlet silk dress, her diamond engagement ring catching the light. Next to her was Dylan Burroughs, the notorious kingpin of Harrow Falls, his expression unreadable and cold.
The room froze as Molly stumbled inside, carrying the bloody, gasping mastiff.
"What is the meaning of this?" Libby’s voice cut through the soft jazz music, sharp and laced with instant disgust. "Get that filthy animal away from my table!"
Molly sank to her knees right in the middle of the floor, her uniform stained with the dog's blood. "Please," Molly gasped, looking directly at Dylan Burroughs, hoping a man of his stature might have a shred of humanity. "He’s dying. He needs a vet right now. He just crawled in from the alley."
Libby stood up slowly. The entire room held its breath. The sheer arrogance radiating from her was suffocating. She walked over to where Molly was kneeling, the clicks of her red stiletto heels sounding like a countdown.
"You ruined my engagement dinner," Libby whispered, her face twisting into pure malice. "For a stray mutt."
Before anyone could react, Libby drew back her red heel and drove it clean into Molly’s ribs.
The kick landed with a sickening thud. The room went dead silent. Molly didn't cry out—she bit her lip so hard it bled, because the dog had just flinched at the sound of her heavy breathing. She simply wrapped her arms tighter around the mastiff’s neck, shielding his wounded body with her own.
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Libby laughed, a cold, tinkling sound. "Throw her out. And shoot the dog."
Nobody moved. But it wasn't because they pitied Molly. It was because the heavy oak entrance doors of Blackwoods had just swung open, and a man walked into the room.
