Chapter 2 - The Terms of EngagementMoretti didn't blink. For three long seconds, the only sound in the office was the rhythmic hum of the ancient water cooler in the corner.
Then he laughed. It wasn't a warm sound; it was the sound of dry leaves scraping across asphalt.
"You think you can manage him?" Moretti asked, his slate-gray eyes locking onto mine. "Half the men who work for me won't step into his run without a cattle prod or a sedation dart. They say he’s wired wrong. A bad seed."
"They're the ones wired wrong," I snapped back, my patience wearing thin. "Dogs like Titan don't come out of the box broken. They're built like tanks and given to people who treat them like alarms. He doesn't need a cattle prod. He needs boundaries, consistency, and someone who doesn't smell like fear and cheap cologne."
Moretti’s eyes narrowed slightly at the cologne comment, but there was no flash of anger—only a flicker of sharp, assessing amusement. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a gold-plated fountain pen, and laid a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills directly onto Jenny’s laminate desk.
"That covers the fines," Moretti said softly. "And a donation for your flickering fluorescent lights."
I looked at the money, then back up at him. "That doesn't buy you the dog."
"No," Moretti agreed, leaning in just enough to invade my space. "It buys me a conversation. You say he has terrible manners. I say he’s a working animal who knows how to protect an asset. But if you’re so certain you know better than the men who built my operation... prove it."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're going to teach him," Moretti said, his voice dropping into an absolute command. "Not here in this concrete box. At my estate on the North Shore. Come twice a week. Fix whatever is broken in him. Name your price."
"I don't work for mercenaries, Mr. Moretti."
"Call it consultancy," he countered smoothly, sliding a heavy business card across the desk between us. The card was thick, cream-colored cardstock with no logo, just a name embossed in matte black: Dante Moretti. "Or call it community service for insulting my wardrobe. Either way, Titan comes home with me tonight, and tomorrow afternoon, my driver picks you up at three sharp. Don't be late. My dogs hate waiting."
Before I could tell him where he could shove his North Shore estate and his gold pen, he turned on his heel, pushed through the heavy glass doors, and walked out into the Chicago mist.
May you like
Jenny let out a breath that sounded like a punctured tire. "Elena... do you know who that is? That's Dante Moretti. Half the dockworkers in the Tri-State area don't breathe without his permission."
I looked down at the cream-colored card on the desk. "I don't care if he's the mayor of the underworld, Jenny. He's a terrible dog owner."
