Chapter 1 - The Mansion Next Door
Mila pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her apartment window, watching the massive black beast glide across the emerald turf of the neighboring estate. The beast did not run; it strolled. It moved with the calculated, heavy dignity of a mob capo walking through a neighborhood he owned block by block.
In its jaws, balanced with terrifying precision, was her aluminum slow cooker insert. Steam plumed from the sides, curling upward into the damp evening air like smoke from a victory cigar.
"That dog," Mila repeated, her voice deadpan, "just stole my life savings in beef chuck and root vegetables."
Kate finally abandoned her phone, scrambling off the couch and crowding into the tiny window space beside Mila. Her eyes went wide as saucers as she tracked the massive animal toward the rear terrace of the sprawling neo-classical mansion.
"Holy mother of stray dogs," Kate whispered. "Is that a cane corso? Or a small black bear? Where did he even get the pot?"
"He took it off my counter," Mila said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "My kitchen window doesn't latch properly. I left it cracked two inches for air because the stove pilot light leaks gas, and this... this absolute unit of a canine reached his paw in, unlatched it, lifted the glass, and hauled out a six-quart crockpot."
"He's operating on a master's degree level," Kate observed, though she looked half-terrified. "Who owns that fortress anyway? The place has been empty for years, or at least looking abandoned, except for the high-end security cameras."
"Viktor Vance," Mila said, the name dropping like a cold stone. Everyone in this fading Queens district knew the name, even if they whispered it. Vance was an elusive, reclusive billionaire rumored to have made his fortune in shipping, logistics, and things nobody asked too many questions about. The mansion was surrounded by ten-foot wrought-iron fences, motion-activated turrets, and heavy black SUVs idling in the circular drive.
"You're not going over there," Kate grabbed Mila's arm as Mila reached for her worn-out sneakers by the door. "Mila, that's Viktor Vance's place. People like us don't knock on Viktor Vance's door to complain about a missing pot roast. People like us disappear and turn up as paving stones on the Long Island Expressway."
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"I don't care if Viktor Vance is running an international syndicate out of his basement," Mila snapped, her exhaustion finally boiling over into pure, unadulterated fury. "That pot roast cost fourteen dollars and forty-two cents. It was supposed to feed me until Friday. I am tired, I am broke, and that dog is currently eating my gravy off fine china."
Before Kate could issue another warning, Mila wrenched her arm free, slipped into her sneakers, and stormed out the front door.
