Chapter 5 - The Silent Language
At precisely 6:55 AM, Sloan stood at the back entrance of the main house.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of damp pine needles and impending rain.
The back door opened before she could knock. Frank Novak stood in the doorway, wearing a gray sweatshirt over his broad frame, holding a steaming mug of black coffee. He looked at Sloan with tired, cynical eyes.
"Boss is in the library," Frank said, stepping aside. "Kid’s already up. Hasn't left the dog’s side since five."
Sloan followed Frank through a hallway lined with dark walnut paneling and oil paintings of ships in Boston Harbor.
The library was a massive, two-story room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a heavy stone fireplace where a low fire crackled, and deep leather armchairs.
Mia was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, a bowl of untouched cereal sitting on a brass tray nearby. Goliath was lying beside her, his broad head resting across her legs.
Reed Carbone stood near the window, a folder open in his hands, speaking softly into a cell phone.
"...I don't care what the port authority says," Reed was saying quietly. "The shipment from Rotterdam clears customs at Pier 4 by noon, or we pull our trucks from the terminal. Tell Vance he has two hours."
He snapped the phone shut, tossed it onto a desk, and turned to Sloan.
"Miss Blake," Reed said. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept at all. "Let’s see what ten thousand dollars buys me."
Sloan walked into the room, keeping her posture upright and professional. She didn't look at Goliath directly—she couldn't risk giving him a signal that would betray their long history.
She stopped three feet from Mia.
The little girl looked up, her hand instantly tightening on Goliath’s collar, her eyes defensive.
Sloan slowly dropped down onto her knees, bringing herself eye-to-eye with the child. She didn't offer her hand. She didn't speak.
Instead, she raised her hands and signed softly:
Hello. My name is Catherine. What is his name?
Mia’s eyes widened. She looked at Sloan’s fingers, then up at her face, her lip trembling slightly.
She didn't sign back immediately. She looked at her father.
Reed stood frozen by the window, his chest rising and falling slowly as he watched the interaction.
Mia turned back to Sloan, lifted her small hands, and signed slowly:
His name is Gray.
Sloan felt a tug at her heart. Gray. A simple name for a giant gray dog.
Sloan smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes.
Gray is a good name, Sloan signed back. Would you like to learn how to tell him to sit, stay, and come to you?
Mia nodded vigorously, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders.
For the next two hours, the library was entirely silent except for the crackle of the wood fire and the quiet rustle of clothes.
Sloan showed Mia the core signals her father had developed years ago—flat palm down for stay, two fingers tapped against the hip for come, an open palm lifted toward the chest for sit.
Goliath executed every command flawlessly.
To Reed and Frank, it looked like a brilliant Manhattan trainer rapidly teaching a deaf dog new visual cues.
In reality, Goliath was simply obeying the signs he had known since he was an eight-week-old puppy in Framingham, delighted to be working with his true master again.
By nine o'clock, Mia was standing in the center of the library, her small hand raising in a flat palm.
Goliath instantly dropped his rear onto the rug, his eyes locked onto the girl with total devotion.
Mia let out a sound—a tiny, soft, squeaky laugh that echoed through the high-ceilinged room like a crystal bell breaking.
Reed Carbone dropped his pen.
The heavy leather folder fell from his fingers, spilling papers across the dark mahogany desk. He stepped forward, his throat working as he stared at his daughter, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"She laughed," Reed whispered, his raspy voice shaking. "Frank... she laughed."
Frank Novak cleared his throat heavily, turning his head toward the fireplace to hide the sudden moisture in his own eyes. "Yeah, Boss. I heard it."
Reed walked over to Sloan. The cold, terrifying mob boss was entirely gone, replaced by a father who looked as though he had just been handed his life back.
He reached out, taking Sloan’s hand in a grip that was surprisingly gentle.
"Thank you," Reed rasped. "Whatever you're charging me, Catherine... double it."
Before Sloan could answer, the double doors of the library burst open.
A young man in a dark suit, his face pale and drenched in cold sweat, ran into the room holding an iPad.
"Boss," the man panted, glancing nervously at Sloan. "We got a problem. A big one."
Reed’s face instantly hardened back into stone. "What is it, Jimmy?"
"The team we sent to Manhattan..." Jimmy swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward Sloan. "They went to the Palace Hotel to pick up Miss Blake’s luggage."
Sloan’s blood turned to ice.
"And?" Reed demanded coldly.
"And..." Jimmy held up the iPad screen. "The hotel manager says a bag was dropped off forty minutes ago by a courier, but the manager thought it was weird because the reservation was created in their system three hours ago from an untraceable IP address in Boston."
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Jimmy clicked a button on the screen, revealing a crisp driver's license photo pulled from the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles.
"There is no Catherine Blake in Manhattan, Boss," Jimmy said, his voice shaking. "Her real name is Sloan Hartley. She’s a dog trainer from Dorchester. And that dog... it belonged to her dead father."
