My pulse raced against my ribs as I was ushered into the back of the sleek black SUV. The leather smelled faintly of expensive cologne and gun oil. Neither of the two suits upfront said a word during the ten-minute drive to the Upper East Side, leaving me alone with my terror and a hundred spiraling questions.
When the car finally pulled up to a grand, gated brownstone, one of the men opened my door. “Through the double doors, Miss Marshall. Mr. Moretti is expecting you.”
I swallowed hard, smoothed down my faded sweater, and walked inside.
The foyer was massive, lined with marble columns and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private garden. Standing near a roaring fireplace was Dante Moretti. He had discarded his charcoal coat for a black sweater, but his presence was no less suffocating.
And lying at his feet was Orion.
The moment the massive hound caught my scent, his head snapped up. His tail hit the floor like a drumbeat, and before Dante could utter a command, Orion bounded across the room, thrusting his heavy head directly into my ribs.
I instinctively sank to my knees, wrapping my arms around his thick neck as he buried his muzzle into my shoulder, letting out a soft, contented sigh.
“He hasn’t touched his food in eighteen hours,” Dante’s voice echoed softly across the room. “The last trainer who tried to put a hand on him required twelve stitches. Yet he acts as if he’s known you his entire life.”
I looked up from the dog, my voice trembling. “My manager said… he said you found something in my background?”
Dante walked slowly toward us, pulling a yellowed, leather-bound dossier from his inner pocket. He didn’t look angry; he looked almost haunted.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Olivia,” Dante said, opening the file. “When Orion took a liking to you, I had my team run a standard background check. Olivia Marshall. Adopted at age three from an agency in upstate New York after a house fire claimed your biological parents.”
I frowned, hugging Orion tighter. “Yes. I’ve known that my whole life. What does that have to do with anything?”
Dante pulled out a faded, black-and-white photograph and handed it to me.
In the picture stood a younger man who looked remarkably like Dante, standing alongside a massive black hound identical to Orion. Beside them was a woman with my exact eyes, holding a toddler on her hip.
“That was my uncle, Mateo,” Dante said quietly, his gray eyes locking onto mine. “Twenty-three years ago, his estate was targeted by an rival syndicate. A fire was set to cover up the hit. We thought everyone inside perished—including his bloodline, and his prized breeding line of Caucasian Shepherds.”
My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the young woman in the photo, my hands shaking so hard the paper rattled.
“Orion isn’t just a guard dog, Olivia,” Dante continued, stepping closer and extending a hand to help me up. “He’s the last pup from that original bloodline. My family spent two decades searching for any trace of what we lost that night.”
He looked down at Orion, who was currently resting his chin over my shoe, watching Dante with watchful, calm eyes.
“Dogs from this line don’t just affectionally bow to anyone,” Dante whispered, a faint, rare warmth breaking through his icy gaze. “They only bow to the family blood. You aren’t an orphan, Olivia Marshall. You’re a Moretti.”