The parking lot behind the Houseian Casino was empty at 5:51 in the morning—the hour when the city was asleep and only people with no choice were awake.

When Delia opened her eyes, she was enveloped in a warmth so intense it made her skin itch.

She was lying on a plush, leather sofa in front of a massive stone fireplace where thick oak logs cracked and roared. A soft, cashmere blanket was draped over her legs, and her wet, frozen clothes had been replaced with a clean, oversized grey sweater and soft cotton trousers that smelled faintly of cedar and expensive cologne.

She sat up abruptly, panic spiking in her chest. "Owen!" she gasped out loud.

"Your son is safe," a voice replied calmly from the shadows near the window.

Delia turned her head fast. Salvatore Vance sat in a heavy leather armchair, a crystal glass of amber liquid held casually in one hand. Barnaby was resting quietly at his feet, his bad leg neatly bandaged with medical gauze.

"What time is it? Where is my son?" Delia demanded, her hand going to her throat. She tried to stand, but her knees buckled under her.

"Easy," Salvatore said, placing his glass on a dark wood table and making no move to stop her. "It is nine in the morning. Your sister-in-law, Clara, received a delivery two hours ago—a hot breakfast, two weeks of groceries, and a short message stating that you were delayed at work doing overtime. You are compensated, and your boy is fine. I had my men check on the house. He is currently playing with a wooden train set."

Delia stared at him, torn between immense relief and terrifying suspicion. "You had your men watch my house?"

"I had my men protect your house," Salvatore corrected gently. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "When a woman saves my dog from the men trying to destroy my life, I make it my personal business to know everything about her. Delia Fay Brennan. Age twenty-seven. Widowed—or rather, abandoned—by a low-life named Travis Hail, who left you with forty thousand dollars of gambling debt to the wrong people. You work two cleaning shifts a day. You make seven hundred dollars a month. You live in a two-room basement apartment on 5th Street."

Delia felt exposed, completely stripped naked by the man's flat recitation of her miserable life. "I don't want your charity, Mr. Vance. I brought your dog back because it was the right thing to do. Not for money."

"I know," Salvatore said softly. "If you wanted money, you would have sold him. Barnaby is a purebred champion golden, but more importantly, he is known to be my personal companion. On the street, his ransom would have fetched fifty thousand dollars easily. Yet, you tied him with a dirty shoelace and walked him three miles in a blizzard."

He stood up, walking toward the fireplace. The light flickered across the deep, jagged lines of his face.

"Why don't you drive, Delia?" he asked suddenly.

Delia closed her eyes, the ghost of an old engine sound echoing in her ears. "I don't talk about that."

"The scar on your boy's forehead," Salvatore continued, his voice surprisingly gentle. "A car crash five years ago. You blamed yourself."

"Stop," Delia snapped, her voice trembling with sudden fury. "Just stop! You don't know anything about me! You sit in this mansion with your guards and your crystal glasses! You don't know what it's like to watch your child gasp for air because you can't afford a fifty-dollar inhaler! You don't know what it's like to walk until your feet bleed just so you don't panic!"

Salvatore didn't get angry. He stood quietly, accepting her rage as if he deserved it.

"You're right," he said after a long silence. "I don't know what it's like to be poor in the way you are poor. But I know what it's like to lose control. Five years ago, my wife and daughter were in a car that didn't make it through a green light. They died because someone wanted to send me a message."

Delia’s anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, cold shock. She looked at the giant of a man standing before her, seeing for the first time the immense, silent graveyard behind his eyes.

"Barnaby was my daughter's dog," Salvatore added, looking down at the sleeping retriever. "He is the only living thing left that touched her hand. Yesterday, my rivals—men working for a rat named Dominic Moretti—bribed a staff member to steal him. They knew losing Barnaby would break what was left of my spirit. They wanted me focused on searching for a dog while they moved on my ports."

He turned back to look at Delia, his expression solemn. "You didn't just return an animal today, Delia. You brought my memory of my daughter home. You gave me back my ground."

Delia lowered her eyes, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry about your family."

"Don't be," Salvatore said coldly. "The men responsible are no longer among the living. And the men who tried to take him from you this morning... have been dealt with."

A heavy knock echoed on the thick wooden door of the study. The chief of security stepped inside, holding a file. He looked at Delia, then at Salvatore, nodding once.

"Speak," Salvatore ordered.

"We checked the debt ledger Travis Hail left behind," the guard said. "It wasn't forty thousand. With Moretti's interest rates, it's ballooned to one hundred and twenty thousand. And Moretti just realized who walked the dog through the gate this morning. He knows who she is."

Delia’s blood ran cold. "What?"