Chapter 3 - The Carbone Estate
The ride to Milton took forty minutes in the back of a black long-wheelbase Cadillac Escalade that smelled of leather, cedar, and faint pipe tobacco.
Sloan sat near the door, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
Across from her sat Reed Carbone and his daughter. The dog lay across the heavy plush carpet between them, his chin resting directly on Sloan’s left shoe. Every few minutes, Goliath’s dark tail would give a tiny, subtle thump against the leather seat—a secret message intended only for the woman who had fed him, washed him, and slept beside him for four years.
I know it’s you, the thump said.
Quiet, Sloan answered with the slightest press of her toe against his broad paw.
The child—whose name, Sloan had gathered from Frank Novak’s quiet comments, was Mia—had not let go of Goliath’s harness once since they left the basement. She sat curled against her father’s side, her eyes wide, staring at Sloan with a quiet, intense curiosity.
"She likes you," Reed said suddenly.
The sound of his voice broke the quiet hum of the tires against the wet highway.
Sloan looked up. Reed was watching her through the dim interior light of the SUV. Up close, away from the flickering basement lights of Serno’s operation, he looked less like a mythical street monster and more like a man exhausted by the weight of his own kingdom. The lines around his eyes were deep, etched into his skin by years of vigilance.
"She doesn't know me," Sloan said evenly.
"Mia knows people better than I do," Reed replied, leaning back against the leather headrest. "She stopped speaking two years ago. After her mother died. Specialists from Boston, New York, Philadelphia... they all said the same thing. Selective mutism. Trauma. They gave me pills, exercises, speech therapists who cost five hundred dollars an hour."
He looked down at his daughter’s ribbon-tied hair.
"None of them helped," Reed murmured. "She stopped looking at people. She stopped coming out of her room. Until tonight."
"Animals don't ask for explanations," Sloan said softly, forgetting her Catherine Blake persona for a fraction of a second. Her real voice—gentle, grounded, carrying the quiet rhythm of her father’s clinic—slipped through. "They don't care why you're quiet. They just care that you're present."
Reed’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching the shift in her tone, but before he could question it, the SUV slowed down, turning off the main road onto a long, winding driveway flanked by high wrought-iron gates and tall pine trees.
The Carbone estate was not a gaudy mob mansion.
It was an old, stone Tudor-style house built in the 1920s, set deep in the hills of Milton, surrounded by dark woods and an eight-foot stone wall topped with discreet security cameras.
The SUV pulled up under the stone portico. Frank Novak opened the door, his heavy frame blocking the cool night air as he reached out a hand to help Mia down.
Goliath stepped out first, his heavy paws landing softly on the wet flagstones. He immediately turned, placing his body between Mia and Frank—a subtle guard position that made Frank freeze in his tracks.
"Easy, boy," Frank grunted, taking a step back.
"He’s establishing a perimeter," Sloan said quickly, stepping out of the car. She reached down, making a deliberate, flat-palm gesture toward Goliath’s chest. Wait.
Goliath halted instantly, his broad tail swinging once before he dropped into a relaxed sit.
Frank let out a low whistle. "Damn. The lady wasn't kidding, Boss. He listens to her."
Reed stepped out last, buttoning his heavy coat. He stood under the porch light, looking at Sloan with a long, unreadable gaze.
"Frank will show you to the guest house," Reed said. "It’s furnished. Heated. Has everything you need. You’ll start training with Mia and the dog tomorrow morning at seven."
"My belongings—" Sloan began.
"Frank sent someone to your hotel in Manhattan," Reed interrupted smoothly. "Your bags will be here by midnight."
Sloan’s stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
Her bags in Manhattan.
There were no bags in Manhattan. "Catherine Blake’s" Manhattan office was a virtual mail-drop address set up by Becca. Her hotel reservation was a fake confirmation code generated by a script on Becca’s laptop.
If Reed Carbone’s men went looking for Catherine Blake’s luggage in New York, they would find nothing.
May you like
And when Reed found out she had lied about who she was, the camera beneath her collar wouldn't save her.
"Thank you, Mr. Carbone," Sloan said, keeping her face completely expressionless. "Seven o'clock will be fine."
