Chapter 2 - The Fortress on Fifth AvenueThe Moretti estate wasn't a home; it was a fortress disguised as a limestone mansion on the Upper East Side.
Heavy wrought-iron gates swung open automatically as our transport van—preceded and followed by bulletproof SUVs—rolled up the snow-dusted cobblestone driveway. Armed guards stood at every corner, their breath pluming white in the freezing midnight air. Yet, as soon as the back doors opened, none of that mattered.
Rusty leaped down from the van, his powerful shoulders bunching as he scanned the perimeter. For a second, I thought he was going to bolt. His amber eyes darted from the armed guards to the towering stone columns. But then Lily took his thick leather leash—which Vincent had insisted on buying from a luxury boutique on the way—and the massive dog instantly softened, matching her slow, silent pace.
"This is madness," I whispered to myself as a butler in a crisp black-and-white suit escorted us through massive oak double doors into a foyer large enough to host a ballroom dance.
The interior was a museum of wealth: marble floors polished to a blinding shine, priceless oil paintings lining the walls, and a grand staircase curving upward into shadows. But the atmosphere was suffocatingly cold. There was no laughter here. No warmth. Just the hum of a multi-million-dollar HVAC system and the quiet clicking of security monitors in a hidden alcove.
Vincent walked over to a towering fireplace where a butler was frantically trying to stoke a dying blaze. "Get them settled in the west wing. Ensure the suite adjoins Lily's room."
"Sir, are you certain about the animal?" the head butler asked, eyeing Rusty with undisguised horror as the dog let out a low, warning rumble at a bronze statue near the hallway.
"Do I look uncertain?" Vincent's voice cut through the room like a scalpel. The butler bowed instantly and scurried away.
Lily didn't go to her room immediately. Instead, she led Rusty right into the center of the vast living room, sat cross-legged on the Persian rug, and began unbuttoning her winter coat. Rusty immediately curled his massive body around her, resting his heavy chin across her small boots like a living shield.
Vincent stood in the archway, watching them from the shadows. The harsh lines of his face seemed to soften just a fraction, revealing the heavy burden of a man who ruled New York's underworld by day, yet felt utterly powerless to heal his own child.
"She hasn't spoken a single word since the night her mother died," Vincent said quietly, stepping into the light. He wasn't looking at me; his eyes were fixed entirely on his daughter. "Two years, four months, and twelve days. The doctors called it selective mutism induced by psychological trauma. But I call it a cage. The same kind of cage you pulled that dog out of."
I swallowed hard, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. "What happened to her mother?"
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Vincent's jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. In his world, questions about the past had a way of opening graves.
"You start tomorrow morning," Vincent said, turning on his heel. "Your job isn't just taking care of the dog. It's making sure neither of them ever gets hurt again. Because in this house, enemies don't knock on the front door."
