Chapter 2 - The Summons
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The two men in sharp black suits stood like monolithic pillars on the sidewalk outside the diner.
Their tinted sunglasses concealed their eyes, but there was no mistaking the cold menace in their rigid posture.
My manager practically shoved me out the glass front door before ducking behind the host stand as if an artillery shell were about to hit.
"Miss Marshall?" the taller man asked, his voice low and devoid of any human warmth.
"Yes," I replied, clutching my coat tightly against the bitter morning chill.
"Please step inside the vehicle."
He opened the heavy rear door of the black Cadillac Escalade with robotic precision.
The interior was lined with supple black leather and smelled faintly of expensive cedar and gun oil.
My legs trembled violently as I climbed onto the plush seat, wondering if this was the last time I would ever see the streets of Manhattan.
The door closed with a heavy, airtight thud that shut out the noisy rumble of city traffic completely.
Neither man spoke a single syllable as the luxury SUV pulled away from the curb and glided effortlessly through the crowded avenues.
I pressed my hands between my knees to keep them from shaking, staring out at the blurred skyscrapers passing by.
My mind raced through every possible scenario, each more terrifying than the last.
Had I broken some unspoken rule of the underworld by touching that hound?
Was Dante Moretti going to demand financial compensation, or worse, take my life for laying a waitress's hand on his prized companion?
Within twenty minutes, the SUV descended into a private underground garage beneath an exclusive glass high-rise in Tribeca.
Security gates opened automatically, flanked by armed guards holding submachine guns who snapped to attention as we rolled past.
"Out," the driver commanded quietly, opening my door.
They escorted me directly into a private elevator that required a biometric fingerprint scan to activate.
The elevator ascended smoothly until the digital panel chimed on the eighty-second floor.
When the doors parted, I gasped at the sheer magnificence of the penthouse that stretched out before me.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline bathed in pale morning light.
The floors were gleaming slabs of imported Italian marble, polished to an impossible mirror shine.
Before I could take another breath, the sound of heavy paws thudded against the marble from the far corridor.
An enormous black shadow came barreling toward me at breathtaking speed.
Instinct screamed at me to brace for impact, but I didn't have time to run.
Orion skidded across the slick floor, throwing his massive front paws gently against my hips and burying his snout directly into my neck.
A series of joyful, high-pitched whines escaped his massive chest as his tail whipped back and forth like a metronome.
"Hey there, buddy," I whispered, relief washing over me so intensely that tears prickled behind my eyes.
I sank down to my knees on the cold marble, wrapping both arms around his muscular neck.
He let out a deep, contented sigh, pressing the full weight of his colossal head into my shoulder.
"He hasn't rested like that in thirty-six hours," a deep, gravelly voice echoed across the open expanse.
I looked up, my breath catching in my throat.
Dante Moretti stood beside a massive mahogany desk, wearing a tailored charcoal suit with an unbuttoned collar.
In his right hand, he held a thick manila folder stamped with red confidential seals.
His piercing gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Who are you really, Olivia?" he asked, his voice steady yet laced with dangerous curiosity.
"I'm just a waitress," I answered truthfully, gently stroking Orion's velvety ears.
Dante walked toward me with slow, predatory grace and tossed the folder onto the marble floor between us.
"That is what your forged social security record says."
"Forged?" I repeated, my voice cracking under the weight of his stare.
"According to the official database of the United States government, Olivia Marshall was born twenty-six years ago in Ohio."
Dante paused, his sharp jaw clenching as he knelt down so his cold eyes were level with mine.
"The only problem is that the real Olivia Marshall died in an Ohio hospital when she was four years old."
A suffocating knot formed in my stomach, paralyzing my lungs.
"And your fingerprints don't match any living citizen in this country."
"That's impossible," I stammered, pulling Orion closer to my chest.
May you like
"No," Dante whispered, reaching out to tap the edge of the open file.
"Your fingerprints match a girl who was supposedly burned to ashes fifteen years ago in a house that belonged to my family."
