Chapter 3 - The North Shore Iron GateThe black town car idling outside the shelter at precisely 2:55 PM didn't look like an ordinary Uber. It looked like a mobile vault.
When I slid into the leather back seat, the driver—a mountain of a man with a broken nose and a suit that didn't hide his shoulder holster—didn't say a word. He just put the car in drive and merged smoothly into the Kennedy Expressway traffic.
Forty-five minutes later, we turned through a set of automated wrought-iron gates that looked heavy enough to stop a freight train. Moretti’s estate wasn't a suburban house; it was a limestone fortress perched on a cliff overlooking Lake Michigan, surrounded by towering pines and iron fencing topped with security sensors.
The car stopped by a sprawling stone patio. As the door clicked open, I stepped out, adjusting the strap of my canvas training bag over my shoulder.
Waiting for us on the gravel path wasn't Moretti. It was Titan.
He was off-leash, standing beside a handler in tactical gear who looked ready to bolt at any second. When Titan saw me, his ears snapped forward. The heavy, low-slung body froze for a fraction of a second, and then he broke into a trot—not the frantic, nervous dash of the shelter run, but a powerful, purposeful stride.
"Careful, ma'am," the tactical handler warned, his hand hovering over his belt. "He hasn't eaten since he got back. He’s unpredictable."
"Shut up," I said mildly, not taking my eyes off the dog. "You're making him nervous."
I crouched down just as I had on the cold concrete floor two days ago. Titan didn't hesitate this time. He closed the distance, planted his massive front paws on either side of my knees, and shoved his wet, heavy nose directly into the side of my neck, letting out a deep, rumbling sigh that vibrated straight through my jacket.
"Good boy," I murmured, scratching him right at the base of his skull where his collar had rubbed a raw spot. "Look at you. Acting like a regular dog."
"He doesn't do that with anyone else," a voice said from the stone terrace above us.
I looked up. Dante Moretti was standing on the balcony, holding a ceramic cup of black coffee, watching us with those unreadable slate eyes. He wore a dark cashmere sweater that made him look less like a syndicate boss and more like a predatory academic.
"That's because your men treat him like a weapon," I called out, standing up and keeping one hand resting firmly on Titan’s broad back. "Weapons don't want affection. Dogs do. Even the big, scary ones."
May you like
Moretti set his coffee cup down on the stone balustrade, turned, and walked back inside. A moment later, the heavy oak doors of the manor opened, and he stepped out onto the lawn.
"Show me," Moretti said, walking down the steps toward us. "You said he has bad manners. Fix them."
