Chapter 1 - The Blood Lineage of the HoundThe sleek black SUV glided through Manhattan’s snow-dusted streets like a silent shadow, its tinted windows isolating me from the bustling morning traffic. I sat frozen in the plush leather back seat, my fingers twisting the hem of my thin winter coat.

Beside me sat Marcus Vance, a six-foot-four security operator in a tailored charcoal suit whose cold slate-gray eyes never left the rear-view mirror.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice barely a thread of sound over the quiet hum of the engine.

"To the Moretti Estate in Upper Bedford, Miss Marshall," Marcus replied flatly. His baritone carried no malice, only an unshakeable, military-grade efficiency. "The Don does not like to be kept waiting."

"I just petted his dog," I whispered, panic tightening my chest. "Is petting a dog a crime in New York?"

Marcus turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Two years ago, a rival syndicate boss reached out to pat Orion’s head at a private summit. Orion broke three of his fingers before the man could draw breath. The dog doesn't tolerate humans, Miss Marshall. He doesn't take food from strangers, he doesn't sit at anyone’s feet, and he certainly doesn't whine when a waitress leaves the room."

The SUV turned down a long, winding private drive lined with towering pine trees, eventually coming to a halt before a massive stone manor. The wrought-iron gates bore the crest of a silver wolf wrapped in anchor chains.

Ten minutes later, I stood inside an enormous, high-ceilinged private study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, and a roaring fire crackled in a grand stone fireplace.

Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was Dante Moretti.

At thirty-six, Dante was the undisputed king of the New York underground—a man whose dark hair, sharp jawline, and cold gray eyes radiated an untouchable, lethal authority. He wore a crisp black bespoke shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing faint, dark tattoos running up his muscular forearms.

Lying on the Persian rug beside his chair, looking utterly miserable, was Orion. The massive black hound’s head rested on his paws, his tail motionless.

The moment I stepped across the threshold, Orion’s ears twitched.

WOOF.

The dog let out a deep, chest-rattling bark, scrambled to his feet, and trotted directly toward me. His massive head pressed hard against my thigh, his tail thumping against the floorboards like a drum beat.

I dropped to my knees without thinking, my hands sinking into his thick midnight fur. "Hey, sweet boy. What's wrong with you, huh?"

Orion let out a soft, contented sigh and rested his chin on my shoulder.

Across the room, Dante slowly stood up from his chair. His gaze wasn't on the dog. His gray eyes were locked onto my face with an intensity so terrifyingly focused that I forgot how to breathe.

He walked around the desk, stopping five feet from where I knelt. He held a thin, red-sealed leather folder in his hand.

"Olivia Marshall," Dante spoke, his voice smooth as velvet and cold as iron. "Twenty-six years old. Former animal rehabilitation specialist at the Chicago Wildlife Reserve. Current waitress at Le Petit Chateaux. Raised in an orphanage in South Boston."

"How... how do you know all that?" I stammered, pulling Orion closer.

Dante tossed the folder flat onto the coffee table beside me. It popped open, revealing old yellowed hospital documents and a high-definition photograph of a silver-engraved whistle.

"Because Orion isn't a normal dog, Olivia," Dante revealed softly, every word falling like lead into the silent room. "He is a specialized Caucasian Shepherd bred specifically for the Moretti bloodline. And the only people he has ever obeyed in thirty years are members of the Vance-Moretti Trust."

I blinked, confused. "I don't know what that means."

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Dante crouched down, his tall frame bringing him eye-to-eye with me. He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray lock of dark hair behind my ear, his touch surprisingly warm.

"It means your mother wasn't a destitute runaway, Olivia," Dante whispered, dropping the bomb that shattered my entire existence. "Your mother was Isabella Moretti—my late uncle's only daughter, who vanished twenty-five years ago during a corporate purge. You aren't a waitress, sweet girl. You are the sole fifty-one percent controlling heiress of the Moretti Maritime Empire."