Chapter 2 - The Awakening in the North Wing
The Moretti estate did not sleep. It merely altered its frequency.
By three o'clock the following afternoon, the private hospital wing on the third floor of the north wing was bathed in an antiseptic gray light. Rain lashed against the tall, leaded glass windows, blurring the autumn foliage of the estate's private woods into streaks of bronze and mud.
Adrian Moretti lay propped against three pillows, his skin the color of wet parchment, but his dark eyes were completely clear.
A thin clear tube ran from an IV stand into the back of his right hand. On the bedside table sat a small glass vial containing twelve milliliters of amber liquid—the remainder of the poisoned scotch Dante had recovered from the library carafe.
Dr. Reynolds stood at the foot of the bed, his charts clutched in both hands. Dante stood by the heavy oak door, his arms crossed over a bulletproof vest he hadn't removed in thirty hours.
“Digitalis purpura,” Reynolds said quietly. “Extracted and concentrated. Highly professional work, Adrian. If you’d drank two fingers instead of half a swallow, your heart would have gone into irreversible ventricular fibrillation within eight minutes. As it was, you went into severe heart block.”
Adrian’s voice was rough, like gravel ground between millstones. “Who touched the decanter?”
“We’re pulling the camera loops now,” Dante answered. “The kitchen staff is in the basement holding room. Nobody leaves until we know.”
Adrian didn't look at Dante. His eyes drifted toward the foot of the bed.
Lying on the sheepskin rug was Titan. The dog had refused food for twenty-four hours. He lay with his chin resting flat on his paws, his gaze never wandering more than three inches from Adrian’s chest. Every time a nurse or a guard stepped into the room, Titan’s throat produced a warning click that cleared the doorway in half a second.
“Reynolds,” Adrian murmured.
“Yes, Adrian?”
“You didn't have the kit when you ran up those stairs. Dante said it took you seven minutes to get the atropine into my vein.”
“Seven minutes and twelve seconds,” Reynolds corrected.
“Titan doesn't allow men within six feet of me when I am asleep, let alone unconscious,” Adrian said, turning his head slowly against the linen. “How did you get to me before my heart stopped?”
Dante shifted his weight. The leather of his shoulder holster creaked. He looked toward the rain-spattered glass, clearly uncomfortable.
“Dante,” Adrian said, the softness of his tone carrying more threat than a raised firearm. “Speak.”
“It wasn't us, boss,” Dante said.
Adrian frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
“The dog had the entire hallway locked down. Dr. Reynolds wouldn't go in. I was about to put two slugs through Titan’s skull to get to you.”
Adrian’s jaw set into an iron ridge. “You would have died before your slide cycled.”
“Probably,” Dante admitted without hesitation. “Then the maid’s kid walked in.”
Adrian stared at his security chief. “The maid?”
“Mrs. Castillo,” Dante said. “Elena. She’s the daytime cleaner for the west wing and the library suites. Her babysitter flaked. She had her daughter tucked away in the linen closet.”
“A child.”
“Five years old,” Reynolds chimed in, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. “Weighed maybe forty pounds soaking wet. She walked right up to Titan while he was in a full protective frenzy. She put her hand on his nose. She told him to be quiet because you were sleeping.”
Adrian looked down at the massive gray dog. Titan’s ear flicked at the mention of his name, but he did not lift his head.
“And Titan?” Adrian asked.
“He backed down,” Dante said, his voice still holding that lingering disbelief. “He let her pet him. He stood there like an old sheepdog while we pulled you out. If that kid hadn't stepped between Titan and my gun, you’d be on a slab at St. Jude’s morgue, and Titan would be buried in the garden.”
Adrian remained silent for a long time. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic, hollow drip of the IV and the wind throwing rain against the window panes.
“Where is she?” Adrian asked.
“The mother is downstairs in the pantry,” Dante said. “Scared out of her mind. She thinks we’re going to kill her for having an unauthorized dependent on the premises during a security breach. She’s had her bags packed since noon.”
Adrian lifted his left hand, the one without the needle, and rubbed his temples. The veins in his wrist were dark and prominent against his pale skin.
“Bring them up,” Adrian said.
“Adrian,” Dante cautioned. “You’re still in critical status. Vincent is downstairs with three captains. The entire family is waiting for a report on your condition. The street is buzzing with rumors that you’re dead.”
“Vincent can wait in the drawing room until his knees ache,” Adrian said coldly. “Bring Mrs. Castillo. And the child.”
Ten minutes later, the door opened again.
Elena Castillo stepped into the room as if she were walking onto a minefield. She had changed out of her damp work smock into a clean, modest gray sweater and dark slacks, but her hands were clasped together so tightly her fingernails were white. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe knot, emphasizing high, sharp cheekbones and dark, haunted eyes that darted instantly to the massive Cane Corso on the floor.
Tucked securely against her hip, clinging like a small koala, was Sophia.
The little girl was wearing a pair of yellow rain boots that were two sizes too large and squeaked with every step Elena took.
Titan’s head snapped up immediately.
Elena gasped, taking half a step backward, her arms tightening around Sophia until the child squirmed.
“Down,” Adrian rasped.
Titan didn't look at Adrian. His tail gave two heavy, deliberate thumps against the hardwood floor. His stubby tail wagged with a slow, ponderous curiosity.
“Put her down, Mrs. Castillo,” Adrian said.
Elena swallowed hard. “Mr. Moretti, please. If this is about the rules—I know children aren't allowed on the residential floors. I’ll leave tonight. I won't ask for the week’s wages. Just let me take her home.”
Adrian looked at her. Really looked at her. He saw the frayed cuffs of her sweater, the cheap silver band on her right hand that suggested a widow’s pride, and the sheer, feral courage in her eyes. She wasn't begging for her life; she was bargaining for her daughter’s.
“Put the girl down,” Adrian repeated, his voice softer this time, devoid of the command tone he used on captains.
Elena’s lips trembled, but she lowered Sophia to the floor.
Sophia’s yellow boots squeaked twice on the floorboards. She looked at the bed, then at the IV stand, and finally at Titan, who had risen to his feet. The dog stood at his full height, his head level with Sophia’s chest.
“Hello, puppy,” Sophia said cheerfully.
Titan took two slow steps forward, lowered his massive skull, and shoved his wet snout directly into the girl’s stomach. Sophia giggled, throwing both arms around the dog’s neck, burying her face into the folds of his gray throat. Titan closed his eyes and let out a long, contented grunt that sounded like a deflating bellows.
Adrian watched the scene with an expression Dante had never seen on his face in ten years of service: pure, unadorned wonder.
“What is your name, little one?” Adrian asked from the bed.
Sophia peeked out from behind Titan’s left ear. “Sophia Maria Castillo. I’m five. But I’m almost six. When I’m six, I get to have two teeth fall out.”
Adrian’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile touching the corner of his lips before the pain in his chest made him wince. “Is that so?”
“Yes. And you have a boo-boo.” She pointed at the purple bruise on his temple. “Mommy puts butter on boo-boos. But Dr. Reynolds has funny smelling water.”
“Sophia, hush,” Elena said, her voice trembling.
Adrian held up a finger. “Let her speak.” He looked at Sophia. “Were you not afraid of him yesterday?”
Sophia frowned, clearly baffled by the question. She stroked Titan’s scarred ear with one small, slightly sticky hand. “Why would I be scared? He was crying inside. He thought nobody could hear him.”
The room seemed to drop three degrees in temperature. Dante cleared his throat. Dr. Reynolds looked down at his shoes.
Adrian turned his dark, penetrating gaze from the child to the mother. Elena stood ramrod straight, her heart practically visible through her thin sweater, ready to die if the dog or the man made a wrong move.
“Mrs. Castillo,” Adrian said slowly. “Your husband. Where is he?”
“He died three years ago, sir,” she said, her voice level despite her fear. “In the harbor fire. At the container terminal.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The North Pier fire? He was a longshoreman?”
“He was a crane operator. Mateo Castillo.”
Adrian remembered. A hydraulic line had burst during an illegal off-load by the Marcone family. Three men had died. Adrian had paid their pensions out through a third-party shell company, but the union had stolen half of it. He had known that, but at the time, he hadn't cared enough to audit the widows’ accounts.
“You clean sixteen rooms a day on the west wing,” Adrian stated.
“Yes, sir.”
“For fourteen dollars an hour.”
“Fifteen, sir. Mrs. Bellini gave me a raise in June.”
Adrian looked back down at Titan. The dog had now laid back down on the rug, but his head was resting comfortably across Sophia’s yellow boots, effectively pinning the child in place. Sophia didn't seem to mind; she had pulled her yellow crayon from her pocket and was currently drawing a wavy line across the leather cuff of Dante’s holster.
Dante didn't dare move to stop her.
“Starting tomorrow,” Adrian said, “you do not clean the west wing.”
Elena’s face drained of what little color it had left. “Mr. Moretti, please—”
“Starting tomorrow,” Adrian interrupted, his voice cutting through the room like a cold chisel, “you are the private supervisor of the family quarters. You will move your belongings into the south cottage by the gatehouse. You will have a food allowance, a vehicle from the motor pool, and your salary will be eighty thousand dollars a year.”
Elena stopped. Her breath hitched. “I... what?”
“There is only one condition,” Adrian said, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the hair on her arms stand up.
“What condition?”
“The child comes to the house every day,” Adrian said. “And she spends two hours in this room. With Titan.”
Elena looked from the mafia boss to the dog, and then to her daughter, who was now attempting to color one of Titan’s gray toenails bright yellow.
“Why?” Elena whispered.
May you like
“Because, Mrs. Castillo,” Adrian said, leaning his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes as the exhaustion took him again, “someone in this house just tried to murder me. Titan is the only security guard I have left who cannot be bought. And right now, the only person who can control Titan is your daughter.”
***
