Chapter 2 - Crossing the Iron Line
The wrought-iron gate of the Vance estate didn't even have a traditional latch; it had a biometric scanner glowing with a faint blue LED. But luck, or sheer divine exhaustion, was on Mila's side. A delivery van idling near the service entrance had propped the side pedestrian gate open with a rubber wedge while unloading bulk cases of imported sparkling water.
Mila slipped through the gap like a shadow, ducking behind a row of manicured boxwood hedges that smelled aggressively expensive.
The grounds were immaculate. No stray leaves, no weeds, just acres of imported turf, classical marble statues that looked like they belonged in a museum, and security cameras tracking every square inch of the property with slow, mechanical precision. Mila kept low, utilizing the shadows of the stone balustrades as she crept toward the back terrace where she had last seen the dog.
As she rounded the corner of a massive stone pillar, the sound of classical cello music drifted through the open French doors of a sprawling back patio.
And there he was.
The massive black mastiff-mix sat squarely on a Persian rug spread across the flagstone patio. He wasn't eating out of a cheap plastic bowl. He was delicately, almost insultingly, licking the remaining gravy off Mila’s aluminum pot insert, which had been placed beside a silver bowl filled with high-end imported kibble.
Standing a few feet away, hands folded behind his back, was a tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke charcoal suit. He looked to be in his late fifties, with sharp, hawk-like eyes, a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow, and an aura of absolute, unyielding authority.
Viktor Vance.
"Well, Bruno," Viktor said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that carried smoothly over the cello music. "It appears your culinary tastes have diversified from prime rib to working-class comfort food. How is the seasoning?"
Bruno gave a low, appreciative huff, his massive tail thumping twice against the flagstone.
"Excuse me!" Mila marched out from behind the pillar, her healthcare scrubs making a swishing sound against the quiet patio. Her finger pointed directly at the dog, then flicked toward the aluminum pot. "That is my pot roast."
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The music didn't stop. Viktor Vance didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head, his sharp eyes locking onto Mila with the chilling detachment of a man evaluating a potential threat.
The massive dog, Bruno, didn't growl. Instead, he stopped licking the pot, raised his heavy head, and looked at Mila with eyes that looked entirely too intelligent for an animal. Almost as if to say: You took your time.
