Chapter 1 - The Don of Elm StreetMila pressed her forehead against the cool, condensation-slicked glass of her kitchen window, watching the magnificent beast execute a flawless, unhurried exit.
The dog—a colossal, sleek-coated Cane Corso whose rippling shoulders suggested he spent his free time bench-pressing Buick engines—didn’t run. Criminal masterminds don’t run; they stroll. In his jaws, the heavy, ceramic-lidded remnant of Mila’s financial salvation swung like a dead pigeon. A single, glistening carrot fell from the wreckage, hitting the manicured lawn of the mansion next door like a teardrop of dashed hopes.
"Is that... is that a fucking panther?" Kate asked, finally abandoning her TikTok scroll to press her face against the glass beside Mila. "Mila. That dog looks like he owns a cigar lounge and has three people buried in his backyard. That's a mafia boss in a fur coat."
"That is my dinner," Mila said, her voice dangerously flat.
She felt a strange, hot surge rise from her stomach, burning away the heavy, suffocating fog of her twelve-hour shift. The exhaustion didn't vanish—it transmuted into pure, unfiltered rage. Her landlord wanted rent. The grocery store wanted compliance. And this canine Tony Soprano wanted her pot roast.
"We're going over there," Mila announced, reaching for her worn leather jacket.
"Whoa, whoa, hold on, Rambo," Kate grabbed her arm. "That house belongs to Victor Vance."
Mila paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Victor Vance? The tech guy? The billionaire who bought the entire block and built a fortress?"
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"No, not the tech guy. Victor Vance Vance. The venture capitalist who was rumored to have ties to half the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands before he retired to 'spend more time with his money.' His security system has security systems, Mila. People go in there and come out as footnotes."
Mila didn't care. She unlocked the front door and pulled it open. "I paid fourteen dollars and seventy-two cents for that roast. Vance can buy a yacht, but my carrots are off-limits."
