Chapter 3 - The NegotiationMila straightened her shoulders, ignoring the way her scrubs smelled faintly of hospital antiseptic and stale coffee. She pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the empty ceramic pot.
"Your dog," Mila said, her voice shaking slightly with adrenaline, "is a menace. A thief. A culinary terrorist."
Victor Vance raised an eyebrow. He took a slow sip from his glass, his gaze shifting from Mila to the empty slow cooker, and then down to Brutus, who gave an innocent, theatrical yawn.
"Brutus?" Vance asked, his tone dry. "My dog? A terrorist? Surely you're mistaken. Brutus is a pacifist. He prefers high-end kibble imported from the Swiss Alps."
"He just ate fourteen dollars and seventy-two cents worth of chuck roast, carrots, and custom gravy out of my kitchen," Mila fired back, stepping closer. "He unlocked my back window. Don't look at me like that—I know he did. He has opposable thumbs in spirit."
A slow, dangerous smile touched the corners of Vance’s mouth. It transformed his severe face into something remarkably striking, though it did nothing to lessen Mila’s irritation.
"Fascinating," Vance murmured, stepping out onto the patio. Up close, he was imposing—towering over Mila by a good foot. "Brutus has lived here for four years. I’ve spent millions on state-of-the-art perimeter security. Not a single animal, raccoon, or stray has ever breached my yard. And yet, you're telling me my dog scales your fence, bypasses your locks, and acts as a feline Robin Hood for beef?"
"He's not Robin Hood! He's a deadbeat! I worked a double shift for that meal, Mr. Vance. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours, my rent is late, and your furry mob boss just ate my only source of joy for the next three days."
The harshness of Mila's words hung in the crisp evening air. Kate winced, stepping back as if expecting Vance to snap his fingers and summon a pack of guard Dobermans.
Instead, Victor Vance looked at Mila—really looked at her. He saw the dark circles under her eyes, the stain of a 12-hour shift on her shoulder, and the fierce, unyielding pride burning in her posture.
Vance walked over to the empty slow cooker, crouched down, and inspected the spotless ceramic.
"Immaculate," Vance noted. He stood up, looking back at Mila. "Tell me, Miss...?"
"Mila. Mila Hayes."
"Miss Hayes. How much did you say that meal cost you?"
"Fourteen dollars and seventy-two cents. Plus tax."
Vance reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket, pulled out a gold-plated money clip, peeled off a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and held it out. "Consider this restitution for the stolen goods. And as for the emotional distress caused by my... associate."
Mila stared at the hundred-dollar bill. It fluttered slightly in the breeze. It could buy groceries for a week. It could pay a fraction of her overdue electric bill.
She slapped the bill out of his hand.
May you like
"Keep your blood money, Mr. Vance," Mila snapped, her eyes flashing. "I don't want your charity. I want my dinner back. Or at least, I want your oversized criminal dog to respect private property."
She turned on her heel, grabbed Kate’s paralyzed arm, and marched back toward the gate, leaving a billionaire and a mafia dog standing in stunned silence.
