By the time Grace Walker realized every man in the courtyard had stopped talking, the estate gates had already closed behind her.

The silence lasted less than a second. Then came the sound: heavy paws hammering against stone somewhere beyond the marble fountain.

Grace turned. Six enormous black dogs were racing toward her.

The grocery bags in her hands suddenly seemed ridiculous. Fresh basil stuck from one paper sack; a loaf of bread leaned dangerously over the edge of the other. Twenty minutes earlier, Grace's greatest concern had been whether the Moretti family would consider the olive oil she'd bought too ordinary for their kitchen.

Now six mastiffs were charging across fifty yards of polished stone.

"Don't run!" someone shouted.

Grace didn't. It wasn't courage—it was memory. Her father had taught her that frightened animals often became more frightened when humans behaved like prey.

Samuel Walker had never owned much. Their house outside Albany had needed a new roof for almost six years. His truck had been older than Grace. Some winters, he'd quietly chosen between paying the electric bill and buying enough groceries. But injured animals always found him, and somehow, Samuel always found room.

"Fear makes noise," Samuel had told her. "Kindness doesn't have to."

Grace slowly placed the groceries on the ground.

"Ma'am, stay standing!"

She ignored the security guard. Bending her knees as the dogs closed in at ten yards, she turned slightly sideways. At five yards, the largest dog slowed.

Grace saw him clearly. He was enormous, even compared with the others. His black coat shone beneath the afternoon sun. His shoulders were broad, his movements deliberate. And above his left eye was a pale diagonal scar.

Grace stopped breathing. The dog stopped several feet away.

Grace lowered her hand. "Hello, handsome."

The animal stared at her, then approached until his nose touched her wrist. Grace remained perfectly still. One second. Two. Then his body relaxed, and his head lowered into her palm.

Her fingers trembled as they touched the familiar crooked line of the scar.

"No... Titan?"

His tail moved—once, then twice.

Grace's knees almost gave way. Twelve years disappeared. She was nineteen again, sitting on the concrete floor of her father's workshop while Samuel carefully opened a transport crate containing a terrified black mastiff puppy with a cut above his left eye. Grace had spent three days helping clean the wound and named him Titan. Then one morning he was gone. Samuel claimed a private family had adopted him. Months later, Samuel Walker was dead—or so she had been told when a burned vehicle was found off a rural road with his watch, wallet, and jacket inside.

Now Titan stood before her, alive, older, and wearing a thick leather collar stamped with a gold letter M for Moretti.

Within seconds, all six mastiffs peacefully surrounded her. Victor Reyes, the estate's chief of security, lowered his radio, looking utterly stunned.

"How do you know Titan?" Victor asked.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Grace replied softly.

Then everyone around her changed posture. A man stood beneath the enormous doorway of the mansion: Luca Moretti.

Luca descended the marble steps. He walked with the calm certainty of someone accustomed to rooms becoming quiet when he entered them.

Titan stayed beside Grace.

"Ms. Walker," Luca said smoothly. "Victor tells me you've already broken one estate rule."

"I bought the wrong olive oil?" Grace retorted.

A guard coughed; Luca almost smiled. "The dogs aren't supposed to approach employees."

"Technically, they approached me."

Grace touched Titan's collar. "My father had this dog. His name was Samuel Walker."

Victor stopped breathing. Luca's eyes sharpened. "Everyone inside," Luca ordered the guards. He turned to Grace. "Your father didn't die twelve years ago, Ms. Walker. Samuel Walker disappeared."

Grace's lips parted. "That's not the same thing."

"No," Luca said quietly. "And three nights ago, someone left a message at my gate."

"What message?"