Chapter 7 - The Master’s Return
On Monday afternoon, the sky over Massachusetts Bay was clear, pale blue, and cold.
The heavy Mercedes medical transport pulled up to the rear terrace of the Moretti estate at two o'clock.
Adrian Moretti walked into the house on his own two feet.
He was pale, his dark suit sat slightly loose on his broad frame, and a thin white bandage was visible beneath his hair at his left temple, but his eyes were sharp, dark, and entirely lucid. He walked slowly, supported by a polished ash-wood cane that Dante had provided.
Standing in the center of the grand foyer were Dante, Elena, and Sophia.
Beside Sophia stood Titan.
The dog’s head was held high. The moment the double terrace doors opened and Adrian stepped across the threshold, Titan’s body went rigid. His tail gave two hard, heavy thuds against the marble floorboards.
Adrian stopped five feet inside the door. He looked at his dog.
Titan did not lunge. He did not let out his usual thunderous bark of welcome. He took three slow, deliberate steps forward, lowered his great, slate-colored head, and pressed his broad snout directly into Adrian’s open right palm.
Adrian closed his fingers around the dog’s broad jaw, his throat working as he swallowed hard.
“Hey, boy,” Adrian said. His voice was raspy, dry from four days of hospital oxygen, but it held the old, familiar warmth. “I heard you gave everybody a hard time while I was sleeping.”
Titan let out a low, heavy huff that blew against Adrian’s trousers.
Adrian looked up. His dark eyes moved past Dante and rested on the five-year-old girl standing in her red sneakers and bright yellow sweater.
He handed his ash-wood cane to Dante, walked slowly across the marble floor, and dropped down onto one knee in front of Sophia.
It was a slow, painful movement, but his face showed no sign of discomfort.
“You’re Sophia,” Adrian said, bringing his eyes level with hers.
“Yes,” Sophia said. She looked at the white bandage on his head. “Did you get a boo-boo on your hair?”
“I did,” Adrian smiled faintly. “The floor was harder than my head.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in blue velvet, and held it out to her on his open palm.
Sophia looked at her mother. Elena gave her a small, reassuring nod.
Sophia took the box, opened the small gold latch, and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a silver whistle on a thick silk cord, and a silver medal stamped with the image of a broad-headed dog with four paws and a scar across its shoulder.
On the back of the medal, carved in delicate, clear script, were the words:
TO SOPHIA — THE GUARDIAN OF THE GUARDIAN.
“If you ever blow that whistle,” Adrian told her softly, “in this house, or anywhere in this city, that dog will come to you through a brick wall. Do you understand?”
Sophia held the silver medal up to the light, her eyes shining with pure delight.
“Can I blow it now?”
“No!” Elena, Dante, and Adrian said in unison.
Sophia giggled, a bright, clear sound that echoed off the high marble ceilings of the grand foyer, breaking sixty years of grim silence that had hung over the estate like a fog.
Adrian stood up slowly, turning to look at Elena.
“Mrs. Castillo,” he said, his hand extending toward her.
Elena took his hand. His grip was firm, warm, and steady.
“Thank you for your daughter,” Adrian said simply. “And thank you for staying.”
“We’re glad you’re home, Mr. Moretti,” Elena said.
Adrian looked at Titan, who had walked back over to Sophia and was currently allowing her to loop the silver whistle’s silk cord around his slate-colored ear.
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“He looks different,” Adrian observed, a small smirk touching his mouth. “Softer.”
“He isn't softer, boss,” Dante said from behind them, his arms crossed over his chest, a genuine smile on his face. “He just found somebody worth protecting more than you.”
