Chapter 2 - The Dog Who Remembered
The elevator climbed so smoothly Willa barely felt it moving.
The numbers above the polished brass doors rose faster than her heartbeat.
Thirty-two.
Forty-one.
Forty-nine.
Fifty-eight.
Miles stood beside her without speaking.
Two other men occupied the elevator, both broad-shouldered, both wearing dark suits, both staring straight ahead as if eye contact required authorization.
Willa hugged her jacket around herself.
“You always travel like this?”
Miles glanced at her.
“Like what?”
“Like somebody might attack between floors.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
“You’ll understand soon.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened onto silence.
Not ordinary silence.
Expensive silence.
The kind produced by thick walls, private elevators, and enough money to keep the rest of Manhattan fifty-eight stories below.
Willa stepped into a penthouse larger than the entire apartment building where she lived.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a glowing map. Black marble ran beneath her worn sneakers. Paintings hung beneath soft recessed lighting, the sort of paintings people guarded in museums.
But none of it caught her attention for more than a second.
Because across the room, near an enormous stone fireplace, lay the dog.
The photograph hadn't prepared her.
He was massive even now.
A gray Neapolitan Mastiff sprawled on a thick rug, his body reduced around a skeletal frame that should have carried twice the weight. An untouched silver bowl sat beside him.
The dog didn't lift his head when Willa entered.
Didn't flick an ear.
Didn't sniff.
Nothing.
Willa stopped.
Something hurt behind her ribs.
Not because he looked sick.
Because he looked finished.
She knew the difference.
A veterinarian could diagnose pain.
Willa had spent enough time surviving it to recognize surrender.
“His name?” she whispered.
A voice answered from somewhere behind her.
“Roman.”
She turned.
The man walking toward her didn't look like the monsters Brendan used to describe when he'd been drunk and trying to frighten her.
That somehow made him worse.
Jared Kensington was tall, maybe thirty-eight, dressed in a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled once at his forearms. No tie. No visible weapon. No raised voice.
His expression was controlled to the point of being unnerving.
He stopped twelve feet away.
Willa felt his attention move across her in one quick assessment.
Cheap shoes.
Bleach-stained jeans.
Healing mark near her wrist she hadn't hidden well enough.
She immediately tugged her sleeve lower.
Jared noticed.
He gave no indication that he had.
“You’re Willa Thornton.”
It wasn't a question.
“And you're the man with more security than the Federal Reserve.”
Miles looked away, perhaps to hide something.
Jared didn't smile.
“My dog is dying.”
“So I heard.”
“Can you help him?”
“I don't know.”
“That wasn't what Miles told me.”
Willa looked at Miles.
Miles suddenly found the skyline fascinating.
“I said she was worth bringing here,” he replied.
Willa turned back toward Roman.
“Everybody leave.”
The room changed.
Not visibly.
But every guard seemed to become more alert at once.
Jared's eyes narrowed.
“Excuse me?”
“You want me to help him?”
“Yes.”
“Then everybody leaves.”
“This is my home.”
“And that's your dog.”
She pointed toward Roman.
“Right now he doesn't care who owns the building.”
Nobody spoke.
Willa swallowed.
Her instincts screamed that she had pushed too far.
Jared Kensington was supposedly a man people crossed only once.
But something in his face shifted.
Not anger.
Interest.
He looked toward Miles.
“Clear the room.”
Within seconds, the security detail disappeared.
Miles followed.
Jared remained.
Willa sighed.
“You too.”
“No.”
“Mr. Kensington—”
“Jared.”
“I don't care if your name is Santa Claus. Animals notice tension. You're standing there like you're waiting to execute somebody.”
A faint sound came from the doorway.
Miles coughing.
Or laughing.
The door closed before Willa could be sure.
Jared's jaw flexed.
Then, incredibly, he walked backward.
“Far enough?”
“Keep going.”
He stopped beside the windows.
Willa lowered herself onto the rug.
Not close to Roman.
Two feet away.
Then she waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Jared spoke first.
“Shouldn't you touch him?”
“No.”
“Offer food?”
“No.”
“Medicine?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“That costs a hundred thousand dollars?”
Willa finally looked at him.
“Maybe that's his problem.”
Jared went still.
Willa returned her eyes to Roman.
“You've had strangers poking him, forcing pills into his mouth, checking his teeth, sticking needles into him, trying different foods, watching every breath.”
Her voice softened.
“He's tired of everybody wanting something.”
Jared's expression changed again.
This time she saw it clearly.
Guilt.
Willa turned toward the dog.
She didn't say his name.
Didn't reach out.
She simply sat.
Another ten minutes passed.
Then Willa whispered one word.
“Enough.”
Roman's ear moved.
Jared straightened.
Willa didn't.
She repeated it.
“Enough.”
The dog's eyelid twitched.
Jared took one involuntary step.
Willa immediately raised a hand.
“Don't.”
He froze.
Roman inhaled.
Long.
Slow.
Then, with visible effort, the giant Mastiff lifted his head less than two inches from the rug.
Jared's face lost every trace of control.
“Roman.”
The dog's eyes opened.
Barely.
But they opened.
Willa felt tears sting unexpectedly.
Not because she'd saved him.
She hadn't.
This wasn't healing.
It was recognition.
Roman's eyes found Willa.
She extended her hand but kept it resting on the carpet.
The dog sniffed once.
Then again.
His huge head moved toward her.
An inch.
Another.
Finally his chin settled across her fingers.
Jared turned away sharply.
Willa pretended not to notice.
When he faced her again, his voice had changed.
“What did that word mean?”
“To him?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.”
Jared frowned.
“It meant something.”
“It meant I wasn't asking him to fight.”
She stroked one finger against Roman's jaw.
“Everybody keeps telling animals like this to hold on. Eat. Stand. Survive.”
She looked at Jared.
“Sometimes the first thing they need to hear is that they're allowed to stop being afraid.”
Jared stared at her.
The silence between them became something heavier.
Then Roman made a low sound.
Not a growl.
A whine.
Willa leaned closer.
“What happened to you, big guy?”
The Mastiff's eyes shifted.
Not toward Jared.
Toward a hallway behind him.
Roman's entire body stiffened.
His breathing accelerated.
Willa noticed immediately.
“What's down there?”
Jared followed the dog's stare.
“My private rooms.”
“Something happened there.”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Roman whimpered again.
Willa slowly stood.
“Then take me there.”
Jared's eyes hardened.
“That area is off-limits.”
“Fine.”
She reached for her jacket.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“You haven't saved him.”
“And I won't if you lie to me.”
The room became very still.
Jared walked toward her.
He didn't touch her.
Somehow that made his presence feel larger.
“You should be careful accusing me of lying.”
Willa looked up at him.
“And you should be careful asking for help when you don't actually want the truth.”
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Jared turned toward the hallway.
“Follow me.”
The corridor was lined with dark wood and framed photographs.
Willa barely noticed them until they reached the final door.
Roman, twenty feet behind them, let out a sudden broken howl.
Willa spun around.
The dog was trying to stand.
His legs shook violently.
“Roman!”
Jared rushed toward him.
But Roman wasn't looking at Jared.
His eyes were fixed on the door behind Willa.
She turned.
A small brass plaque had been removed from it, leaving only two tiny holes.
“What room is this?”
Jared stopped.
For the first time that night, the feared mafia boss looked genuinely afraid.
“My wife's.”
Willa stared at him.
“Your wife?”
“She died eleven months ago.”
The timing hit her strangely.
Eleven months.
Exactly how long she'd been free of Brendan.
“How?”
Jared didn't answer.
Roman clawed weakly at the carpet.
Willa's gaze dropped to the bottom of the door.
There, almost invisible against the dark wood, were four deep scratches.
Not fresh.
Old.
Made by something large.
A dog trying desperately to get inside.
Willa touched one.
Then looked at Jared.
“This dog isn't refusing food because he's sick.”
Jared's face went blank.
May you like
Willa's stomach tightened.
“He's waiting for someone.”
