Chapter 1 - The Phone on the Marble
The penthouse went so quiet that the hiss of the Manhattan rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass sounded like static over a dead line.
Nina stayed on her knees, her white catering apron soaked in red pepper oil and crushed avocado. Ghost’s massive, ninety-pound body was pressed flush against her left thigh, his warm, heavy chest vibrating with a low, possessive rumble. The dog’s dark eyes never left the tall bodyguard named Rocco, whose fingers hovered six inches above his holster.
"Rocco, stand down," Lorenzo Castellano said.
The command was barely louder than a whisper, but the broad-shouldered guard stopped instantly, taking two measured steps back toward the leather-paneled entryway.
Lorenzo walked forward alone. His bespoke Italian shoes crushed a shard of broken porcelain with a dull crunch. He stopped four feet away and crouched down, his amber-brown eyes fixed directly on the spot where Nina’s fingers were buried beneath the dog's spiked leather collar.
"You called him Ghost," Lorenzo said.
"That was his name," Nina replied, her voice shaking but clear. "He was five months old when he was taken from my father's auto shop in Queens. We put up fliers for six months. We filed police reports. No one cared about a stolen puppy from an immigrant family."
Lorenzo reached out his hand slowly, palm up.
Ghost didn't growl. The Rottweiler simply leaned further into Nina's lap, turning his broad head away from his master of six years to lick the dried salt from Nina's trembling knuckles.
Lorenzo’s mouth pressed into a razor-thin line. "I bought him in Munich when he was ten months old. Top-tier military protection bloodline. Trained by the best handlers in Bavaria to track, guard, and tear a man’s throat out on command. For five years, this animal has slept at the foot of my bed. He has taken a bullet for me. He has never let another human being touch his neck."
"He remembers his mother's yard," Nina said softly. She ran her thumb along the raised pink scar running from the dog’s left nostril down to his jowl. "He got this scar trying to squeeze under our chain-link fence to chase the neighbor's cat when he was twelve weeks old. My dad stitched it with fishing line because we couldn't afford the emergency vet."
Lorenzo's gaze flicked to the scar. A subtle, dangerous shift settled into the lines of his face.
"My head of procurement, Dominic Moretti, told me the scar was from a training accident with an attack sleeve," Lorenzo said.
"Dominic lied to you," Nina said.
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Lorenzo stood up, his towering six-foot-three frame blotting out the warm light of the chandelier. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek titanium smartphone.
"Rocco," Lorenzo commanded without turning around. "Bring Dominic up from the garage. Tell him we have an inventory discrepancy."
