Chapter 1 - The Blood On The Paperwork
Lorenzo Castellano stood immobile on the white-and-black marble, his amber-brown eyes tracking every subtle tremor in the Rottweiler’s broad back.
“Hold,” Lorenzo said, raising one finger toward Rocco.
The guard halted immediately, though his hand remained locked around the grip of his holstered SIG Sauer. The other two men in tailored suits shifted outward, flanking the expansive living room, their eyes scanning the floor-to-ceiling glass as if expecting a tactical breacher team to crash through the rain-slicked Manhattan skyline.
Nina did not look at the guards. Her fingers were deeply buried in the thick, dense fur behind Ghost’s ears, feeling the hot, ragged pulse beating beneath his heavy jaw. Six years. Six years of staring at empty leash hooks by her front door. Six years of checking shelters across three states, posting flyers until her staple gun broke, and waking up in the dead of night thinking she heard the soft, familiar click of heavy nails against her hallway linoleum.
“He was four months old,” Nina whispered, her voice cracking as Ghost shoved his massive snout beneath her arm, his ninety-pound frame trembling like an autumn leaf. “I bought him from a shelter in Queens. He had a white patch on his chest shaped like a crescent moon. I named him Ghost because he used to hide behind the refrigerator whenever the thunder rolled.”
Lorenzo’s expression didn't soften. He adjusted the cuff of his charcoal-grey suit, the platinum cufflink catching the dim glow of the city lights outside.
“That dog was purchased five years and nine months ago from an elite canine facility outside Milan,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a register that made the surrounding air feel heavy. “He was trained for fourteen months in personal protection, explosive detection, and violent pacification. He cost three hundred thousand euros. His legal transfer papers are locked in my safe.”
“Then someone lied to you,” Nina retorted, looking up into his eyes without flinching, even as her knees throbbed against the hard marble and the cold pepper sauce soaked through her uniform trousers. “Or someone stole him, sold him to a broker, and slapped a fake pedigree on him. Look at him, Mr. Castellano! Does a three-hundred-thousand-euro killer dog drag himself on his belly for a stranger? Does he cry like a puppy because he hears six notes of a song?”
Lorenzo stared down at her. For three seconds, the silence in the thirty-million-dollar penthouse was absolute.
“Rocco,” Lorenzo commanded smoothly. “Bring the laptop from the study. And get the medical file from the second drawer.”
“Boss—” Rocco began cautiously.
“Now.”
Rocco retreated down the long, dark corridor lined with museum-grade art.
Lorenzo took two deliberate steps closer. Ghost did not growl, but his body went rigid, his dark eyes tracking Lorenzo’s handmade Italian leather shoes.
“If you are lying to me, Miss Vasquez,” Lorenzo said softly, crouching down until he was at eye level with her, “you will not walk out of this building. My family does not tolerate infiltrators. And we certainly do not tolerate people who use psychological tricks to compromise our security.”
“I’m a caterer!” Nina blurted out, her anger finally bursting through her shock. “I make eleven dollars an hour spreading caviar on toast points! I didn't plan this! Look at my hands—they’re covered in tuna and pepper sauce! I didn't even know who lived in this penthouse until Marjorie dragged us into the service elevator!”
Lorenzo reached out slowly. Nina braced herself, but he didn't touch her. Instead, he extended two fingers toward Ghost’s jaw. The Rottweiler let out a low, warning rumble from deep within his throat, turning his head away to press closer into Nina’s neck.
Lorenzo’s eyes flared with something quiet and dangerous—not rage, but a cold, analytical shock.
“He has never refused my touch,” Lorenzo murmured, almost to himself. “Not once in five years.”
Rocco returned, carrying a thin metallic laptop and a thick, blue leather folder stamped with a crest in gold foil. He handed them to Lorenzo without a word.
Lorenzo flipped the folder open. He pulled out a high-resolution certificate of origin, complete with a red wax seal and a microchip identification number.
“Microchip number 985141000289412,” Lorenzo read aloud. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hand-held RFID scanner. He clicked it on. The green light hummed.
“Hold him,” Lorenzo commanded.
Nina wrapped her arms securely around Ghost’s neck, pressing her face against his warm fur. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”
Lorenzo brought the scanner close to the dog’s left shoulder blade.
BEEP.
The digital screen on the scanner illuminated. A line of red text flashed across the tiny LCD display:
CHIP FOUND: 985141000289412
Lorenzo looked at her. “It matches the paper from Milan.”
“Check the right shoulder,” Nina said, her voice shaking with an unshakeable certainty.
Lorenzo frowned. “Why?”
“Because when I adopted him from the Queens shelter, they chipped him on the right side by mistake because he kept squirming,” Nina said, tears finally brimming over her lower lids. “The vet in Brooklyn told me it was slightly off-center. Check it.”
Lorenzo hesitated. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he swept the scanner over the right side of Ghost’s massive shoulder blade.
BEEP-BEEP.
The scanner flashed again.
CHIP FOUND: 410982201994011
NAME: GHOST
OWNER: NINA VASQUEZ
REGISTRATION: QUEENS ANIMAL CARE CONTROL - 2020
The room seemed to lose its oxygen. Rocco sucked in a sharp breath. The two guards at the door exchanged a rapid, nervous glance.
Lorenzo lowered the scanner. He looked down at the tiny screen, reading the name NINA VASQUEZ printed in crude digital lettering beneath the shelter’s code.
He looked up at Nina. Her eyes were red, her chin trembling, but her posture was unyielding.
“He was double-chipped,” Lorenzo said softly, the realization settling into his features like stone. “The trainers in Milan... they didn't breed him. They bought a stolen dog, implanted a second chip over the original, and forged the pedigree papers for the Castellano family.”
“They took my dog,” Nina whispered, clutching Ghost so tightly her fingers ached. “They took my baby, beat him, scarred his face, and taught him how to bite people.”
Ghost let out a soft, mournful whine, licking the teardrop that fell from Nina’s chin.
Lorenzo closed the blue leather folder with a heavy, final snap. He stood up slowly, drawing himself up to his full height.
“Rocco,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a register that made the windowpane vibrate against the storm outside.
May you like
“Yes, Mr. Castellano?”
“Call Julian in Milan,” Lorenzo ordered, his amber eyes burning with an icy, terrifying intensity. “Tell him I want the heads of the breeding facility on a plane to New York by tomorrow morning. And tell him if a single document is missing from their archives... I will liquidate every asset they own in Lombardy.”
