THE SECOND ANIMAL

Vanessa’s champagne glass shattered against the marble floor, the sharp sound echoing through the dead silence of the dining room.

Nobody moved. The twenty-six wealthy guests, the armed security men, even the string quartet in the corner had frozen.

I stood perfectly still, my arms aching from the weight of the seventy-pound German shepherd pressed against my chest. Bruno’s heartbeat was weak, but he turned his gray muzzle toward the front window, whining softly.

Luca Moretti didn't look at the broken glass. He didn't look at his guests.

He stared at the woman he was supposed to marry in three months.

“A second animal,” Luca repeated. His voice wasn’t a shout. It was a low, terrifying whisper that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Vanessa’s beautiful face drained of all color. She took a step back, her red silk gown brushing against the fallen chair.

“Luca, listen to me,” she stammered, raising her hands. “The staff… they left a feral cat in there. It’s diseased. It’s dangerous. I didn't want you to see it and get upset.”

“Give me the keys, Vanessa.”

“It’s a health hazard!” she cried, her voice pitching into a desperate shrill. “The driver is just going to take it to the pound. Let him do his job!”

Luca extended his open palm. He didn't say the words again. He didn't have to.

With trembling fingers, Vanessa reached into her designer clutch and pulled out a heavy iron key ring. She dropped it into Luca’s hand.

“Marco,” Luca said, not taking his eyes off Vanessa.

His head of security stepped forward instantly.

“Escort Mrs. Bellini to the study and lock the door,” Luca ordered. “Do not let her make any phone calls. Apologize to my guests and send them home. The engagement dinner is over.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Vanessa opened her mouth to protest, but Marco gripped her arm with a force that brooked no argument.

Luca turned to me. The dangerous, cold mafia boss was gone. In his eyes, I saw only a desperate, terrified man.

“Show me,” he said.

I adjusted my grip on Bruno, and together, we walked out of the mansion and into the freezing Chicago rain.

The maintenance garage sat at the far edge of the estate, shielded by tall oak trees. It hadn't been used for cars in decades.

When we reached the heavy wooden doors, Luca slid the iron key into the padlock. It clicked open. He threw the door wide, reaching blindly for the light switch.

A single, flickering fluorescent bulb hummed to life.

The front of the garage was just as I had left it: dusty concrete, gardening tools, and the dirty blanket where I had found Bruno.

But at the very back of the deep garage was another door. A heavy steel security door that led to the old potting shed.

Bruno suddenly whimpered. He struggled in my arms, his back legs kicking weakly, desperate to get down.

I set the dog gently on the concrete. Bruno didn't run to Luca. He limped directly to the steel door, pressed his nose against the bottom crack, and let out a heartbreaking, mournful howl.

Luca’s jaw tightened. He walked to the door, sorted through the keys, and found a small, silver one.

He unlocked the deadbolt and pushed the heavy steel open.

The smell hit us first. Damp earth, mold, and the sharp tang of ammonia.

Luca stepped inside, his broad shoulders blocking my view. Suddenly, he froze. His entire body went rigid.

“Dio mio,” he whispered.

I stepped up behind him and looked inside.

Sitting on a pile of empty fertilizer bags in the freezing, windowless room was a little boy.

He couldn't have been older than five. He wore a filthy, oversized wool coat that swallowed his small frame. His dark hair was matted, his cheeks smeared with dirt and tears. He was shivering violently, his arms wrapped around his knees.

Vanessa hadn't locked a feral cat in the garage. She had locked a human child in the freezing dark.

But it was the discovery of what the boy was holding that made my breath catch in my throat.

Tied around the boy’s neck, dangling from a frayed piece of twine, was a piece of brass.

It was Bruno’s missing collar tag.

The old dog limped past us into the room, ignoring his own pain. He collapsed next to the boy, resting his heavy gray head on the child’s lap. The little boy immediately buried his freezing hands in Bruno’s fur, sobbing into the dog's neck.

Bruno hadn't been locked in the garage by accident. The dog had refused to leave the child.

Luca slowly lowered himself to his knees, just as he had done for Bruno in the dining room. He reached out a trembling hand toward the boy.

“Hey, buddy,” Luca said softly, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn't name. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?”

The little boy flinched, shrinking back against the concrete wall. His wide, terrified eyes darted from Luca’s face to the doorway, searching for an escape.

“It’s alright,” I said gently, kneeling beside Luca. “The dog likes him. See? You’re safe now.”

The boy looked at me, then looked back at the most feared man in Chicago.

He clutched Bruno’s brass tag tightly in his small fist.

“The pretty lady with the red dress said I had to hide,” the little boy whispered, his voice shaking.

“Why did she say that?” Luca asked, his eyes burning with a terrifying rage.