Chapter 2 - The Lion's Den
The backseat of the Cadillac Escalade was cold, smelling of expensive Italian leather and ozone. The two enforcers didn't speak. The driver kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, while the man riding shotgun tapped a rhythmic, silent beat against the holster beneath his arm.
"Where are we going?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain level. "Kidnapping a waitress in broad daylight isn't a great look, even for the Moretti family."
The man in the passenger seat didn't turn around. "Mr. Moretti doesn't kidnap. He requests. And you complied, Miss Vance."
"Because your manager looked like he was going to have a stroke if I didn't!"
Neither man answered.
We crossed the bridge, leaving the tight, claustrophobic grid of Manhattan behind and heading north along the Hudson. Concrete gave way to towering oaks, their branches bare against the autumn sky. We turned down a private, winding road flanked by ten-foot wrought-iron fences wrapped in razor wire and high-definition surveillance pods.
The gates parted without a sound.
The Moretti estate was not a modern glass box; it was a fortress of dark stone and slate roofs, rising from the cliffs overlooking the river like a sleeping leviathan. It had been built a century ago, meant to withstand sieges, artillery, and the turning of empires.
The SUV stopped in the grand circular motor court. The door was opened for me before the engine had even died.
"Inside," the enforcer muttered, gesturing toward the towering double oak doors.
I stepped onto the gravel, my cheap canvas sneakers crunching loudly against the pristine stone. I hugged my thin denim jacket around myself, fighting the chill that had nothing to do with the wind.
The front doors swung inward. The grand foyer was cavernous, vaulted ceilings rising into shadow, a massive chandelier of black iron hanging above a floor of white-veined marble.
And then, a sound echoed from the grand staircase.
A furious, scrambling cadence of heavy claws on marble.
Before I could take a defensive breath, eighty kilograms of fur hit me full in the chest. I staggered backward, my back hitting the heavy wooden doorframe, but instead of teeth sinking into my jugular, a gigantic, warm tongue swiped across my cheek.
"Orion!" a voice barked from above.
The dog ignored the command entirely. He pressed his massive body against my legs, shoving his face into my stomach, whimpering like a puppy separated from its mother for weeks. He let out tiny, desperate yelps, his tail beating wildly against the oak panels.
"Hey... hey, big boy," I breathed, sinking to the floor as my knees gave out from sheer relief. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in his thick fur. The dog let out a shuddering sigh, collapsing his weight directly over my lap, completely pinning me to the floor. "I'm okay. You're okay."
Footsteps descended the staircase. Deliberate. Heavy. Unhurried.
Dante Moretti appeared on the landing. Today he wore a black cashmere sweater pushed up to his forearms, revealing intricate geometric tattoos winding past his wrists, ending in scars that spoke of violent survival. In his right hand, he held a thick manila dossier.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking down at me on the floor, pinned beneath his apex predator.
"He hasn't let anyone touch him in four years," Dante said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "My brother tried to feed him this morning. Orion nearly tore his forearm off. Yet you walk through my front door, and he turns into a lapdog."
"Maybe you should try being nicer to him," I shot back, rubbing Orion behind his ears. The dog groaned with absolute satisfaction, refusing to move an inch.
Dante didn't smile. His cold, predatory gaze bored into mine, stripping away every defense I had constructed over twenty-four years of an unremarkable life.
"Get up," he commanded.
"I can't," I pointed out dryly. "Your bear is using me as an area rug."
Dante snapped his fingers once. "Orion. *Couch.*"
The dog whined, looking up at Dante, then back at me. He licked my chin one more time before reluctantly rising and trotting to a massive leather ottoman near the fireplace, where he settled with his head resting on his paws, his golden eyes glued to my face.
I scrambled to my feet, dusting off my jeans, trying to salvage whatever dignity I had left. "Look, Mr. Moretti. I don't know what kind of game you're playing. I'm a waitress. I have thirty-four dollars in my checking account, three past-due utility bills, and a shift at five o'clock. If this is about your dog, hire a trainer."
Dante stepped forward until he was standing less than two feet from me. He smelled of cedarwood, bitter espresso, and danger.
"This isn't about Orion's obedience, Miss Vance," Dante murmured. He held up the dossier, opening it with a flick of his wrist. "This is about who you are."
May you like
"I know who I am."
"Do you?" Dante flipped the file around, thrusting a photograph into my view. "Because according to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the New York Police Department, and my own family records... you died fourteen years ago."
