Chapter 1 - The Pink Rabbit Lunchbox
Dominic Moretti stood motionless in the free
zing March rain, his dark wool coat soaking up the damp chill that hung heavy over his Long Island estate. The rain wasn’t a downpour, but a steady, relentless drizzle that turned the manicured slate paths dark and slick.
He noticed the footprint first—a single, tiny impression of a small rubber boot pressed into the wet moss near the stone path. Then he noticed the camera. High on the eaves of the iron-and-concrete kennel building, the red power LED of unit four was completely dead.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. In his world, a dead camera was rarely an accident. It was either negligence or a blind spot created on purpose.
Then he heard the voice—so soft it was almost swallowed by the patter of raindrops falling on the greenhouse roof.
“Little bite,” the child whispered.
Dominic stepped around the trimmed boxwoods, his leather-clad hands resting loosely at his sides. Crouched on the damp concrete in front of the farthest kennel run was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than four years old. She wore a cream sweater with mud-stained cuffs, navy leggings, and a single pink rain boot. Her dark blond hair was tied in an uneven ponytail with a red rubber band.
In her left hand, she held a bright pink plastic lunchbox decorated with cartoon white rabbits. In her right hand was a small plastic spoon.
Inside the iron cage lay Bruno.
Bruno had been Dominic’s primary guard dog eight years ago—a massive, one-hundred-and-ten-pound German shepherd who had once taken a bullet meant for Dominic’s father. Now, the dog was a shadow of his former self. His coat was dull and matted, his hips narrow and sunken, his ribs pressing sharply against pale, thin skin.
Beside the dog, two stainless-steel bowls sat on the concrete floor. The water bowl was completely bone-dry. The food bowl had a crescent of gray dust sitting at the bottom—dust that only accumulated when a dish had gone untouched for days.
The little girl slid a small piece of deli turkey through the thick iron bars. Bruno’s graying muzzle twitched. Slowly, painfully, the old dog lifted his heavy head and took the meat from her tiny fingers with incredible gentleness.
Footsteps crunched against the wet gravel behind Dominic.
Victor Hale emerged from the greenhouse path. He carried a heavy leather-bound ledger under his arm and a black fiberglass training stick in his hand. Victor had managed security and animals for the Moretti family for nearly two decades. He was a former military handler—meticulous, quiet, and ruthlessly efficient.
Victor stopped short when he saw Dominic standing near the bushes. His eyes flicked to the child, and his posture instantly stiffened.
“Mr. Moretti,” Victor said smoothly, taking a fast step forward. “Sir, I apologize. She shouldn’t be in this wing. This is the maid’s daughter—Elena’s child. I’ll have them both removed immediately.”
At the sound of Victor’s voice, the little girl flinched violently. She stood up so fast her plastic spoon clattered onto the wet stone floor.
She looked at Victor, then turned her wide, terrified brown eyes onto Dominic. Instead of running, the four-year-old stepped directly in front of the kennel bars, spreading her tiny arms wide to cover Bruno’s empty food bowl with her body.
“Please,” she whispered, her lips trembling from the cold. “Don’t make him go away. He’s hungry.”
Dominic didn’t look at Victor. He looked down at the child’s small, mud-splattered pink boot, then at the pink lunchbox containing three remaining slices of turkey.
“What is her name?” Dominic asked, his voice low, deep, and devoid of warmth.
“Maya, sir,” Victor answered quickly, moving to grab her arm. “Her mother was hired three months ago to clean the guest quarters. I’ll make sure Elena is let go before nightfall—”
“Stop,” Dominic said.
The single word cut through the air like a blade. Victor froze in mid-stride.
Dominic crouched down until his eyes were level with the little girl’s. The smell of cold rain, cheap turkey, and wet dog fur drifted between them.
“You’re feeding my dog, Maya?” Dominic asked quietly.
Maya swallowed hard, nodding once. Her tiny hand reached back through the bars to touch Bruno’s wet nose. Bruno let out a soft, rattling sigh and rested his chin on her foot.
May you like
“Why are you using your turkey?” Dominic asked.
“Because his bowl is broken,” she whispered, pointing her small plastic spoon at the dusty, empty steel dish. “It doesn’t grow food anymore. And the man with the stick gives all the big meat to the black cars.”
