Chapter 10: "Let The Dog In"
The Accardi District stood at the heart of Borgata — a cold forest of steel and glass skyscrapers that cared nothing for beauty, only power.
On the 82nd floor of the tallest tower, Isidore Accardi’s private office overlooked the entire city like a kingdom laid at his feet.
Inside, the room was minimalist and immaculate.
One desk.
One chair.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Nothing unnecessary.
Isidore sat behind the desk, eyes fixed on his tablet, his fingers unmoving.
Across the room, Isaac Accardi — Don of House Accardi — leaned against the glass, arms crossed. The city sprawled beneath him like something he already owned, yet his expression remained unimpressed.
"She was trash, Isidore," Isaac said bluntly. "A drug-addled socialite who couldn’t balance a checkbook, let alone keep a secret."
He turned slightly, enough to cast his younger brother a hard look.
"Why are we even considering this?"
Isaac was still seething over Isidore’s participation in the bidding at the Summit. However, he knew Isidore never moved a muscle without a thousand calculations behind it.
He had chosen to remain patient until they were behind closed doors. Now, they were behind closed doors.
Isidore, for his part, didn’t look up.
"Trash," he replied, flat and clipped, "can be recycled into something useful."
Isaac exhaled sharply, frustration clear in his voice. "You keep talking in riddles. Would it kill you to speak plainly for once?"
Isidore finally lifted his gaze — a sharp, one-second glare — before returning to his tablet.
’Why must people waste breath? ’
’The logic was clear.’
’Yet Isaac needed it mapped out.’
’Being Don made him dumber by the day.’
"I had my analysts compile everything on her from the last forty-eight hours," Isidore said at last. "The woman who walked into the Summit is not the same woman who was dosing in Sartori’s bed three days ago."
Isaac’s gaze narrowed.
"So you’re saying she’s sober now." He shrugged. "Fine. That’s... impressive, I guess. It still doesn’t make her an asset."
"It makes her a Trojan horse."
The words landed cleanly. Isidore offered nothing more.
Isaac let out a humorless laugh and shook his head. "There you go again. Next time, remind me to hire a Consigliere who speaks in full sentences."
Isidore granted his brother another glare. A brief one — half a second, he counted.
"No one questions a Lombardi socialite. She can walk into any ballroom, any gala, any bedroom in Borgata without raising suspicion."
Isaac’s expression shifted, irritation giving way to thought.
"If there’s a breach," Isidore continued, "it won’t lead back to us. It will lead to her. A Lombardi girl everyone already assumes is brain-rotted."
Isaac went completely still.
He turned the idea over in his mind, testing it at different angles, looking for flaws. When he found none, a slow grin spread across his face.
"That," he admitted, "is clever."
’Of course it was.’
The thought passed through Isidore’s mind without weight.
"And what do you need from me?" Isaac asked.
Isidore didn’t hesitate. "Leak that my contract with her is sexual in nature."
Isaac’s brow lifted slightly, already amused.
"A purchased indulgence," Isidore went on, indifferent. "Something I acquired for personal entertainment."
The words carried no embarrassment. No shame. Only utility.
"A pet," Isaac said, tone light.
"If you prefer."
Isaac’s grin sharpened.
Before he could say another word, an electronic chime cut through the room.
The receptionist’s voice came over the intercom: "Sir, Miss Lombardi has arrived."
"Send her in," Isidore replied.
He didn’t wait for another response, yet two seconds later, the intercom clicked on again, the receptionist sounding less certain.
"There is... one small problem, sir."
Isidore’s finger stilled over the tablet.
"What?"
"There’s a dog," the receptionist said. "Miss Lombardi has asked if she could come in with a dog. Your permission, sir?"
"No dogs."
Across the room, Isaac let out a scoff.
"A dog? Since when does the Lombardi heiress care about anything that isn’t champagne and cameras?"
Isidore didn’t reply. His attention had already returned to the tablet, the matter dismissed.
"But..." the receptionist hesitated. "She insists the dog may feel... lonely outside. She apologizes for the inconvenience."
"No," Isidore repeated.
"Sir," the receptionist said quickly. "She’s heard you and apologized. She’s leaving."
Isaac’s amusement faded. His brow furrowed as he looked at his brother.
"Isidore," he said slowly, "how much did you propose to Don Gian at the table?"
"A billion."
Isaac’s lips pressed into a thin line.
’A billion dollars?’
’And she’s walking away over a dog’s feelings?’
Isidore’s finger hit the intercom button with a sharp click.
"Let the dog in."
"Understood, sir."
Isaac pushed off the window, an amused smirk replacing his earlier irritation. It was rare to see Isidore Accardi recalibrate in real time.
"Good luck with your ’investment,’ brother," Isaac said.
He didn’t wait for a response, just slipped out of the room through a side door the moment the main doors slid open.
Aren stepped inside.
Biscuit trotted faithfully at her heels — small, scruffy and entirely out of place against the sterile perfection of the room.
Her eyes found Isidore immediately. He looked exactly as he had at the Summit — like the entire room had been designed around him.
Glasses aligned perfectly on the bridge of his nose.
Suit and tie sharp enough to draw blood.
His golden-blond hair was combed so neatly it looked intentional down to the last strand.
Even the documents on the desk were arranged with unnatural symmetry.
"Mister Accardi," Aren said, offering a small smile. "Thank you for your approval."
Isidore didn’t stand to greet her.
He evaluated her for exactly three seconds — the cream cardigan, the scruffy dog, the wide, unblinking silver eyes — then returned his attention to the tablet.
"Sit."
Aren moved at once, lowering herself into the leather chair across from him. Her back was straight, knees pressed together, the posture of a trainee before a commanding officer.
"May I take notes?" she asked. "I don’t wish to forget any details."
"No."
The refusal came without pause.
Aren offered no protest. She sat quiet and still, but inside, her admiration for the man increased tenfold.
’A real officer,’ she thought. He didn’t even waste a single word on fluff.
Beside her, Biscuit shifted. Then, without warning, he hopped down.
Aren startled.
"Biscuit—"
Her hand shot out, but he had already slipped past her. The little dog trotted toward the desk, nose low, giving the corner of the expensive wood a thorough sniff.
Isidore stopped reading.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze and directed it at the dog.
Biscuit froze in place.
A small, distressed huff escaped him.
Immediately, the dog decided the man was made of permafrost. He retreated to the furthest corner of the room, sat down, and let out a judgmental sigh.
Aren pressed her lips together, visibly flustered.
"I’m sorry," she said. "This is Biscuit. He’s new. He’s still learning the protocols."
Isidore didn’t care for the dog’s name or the apology. His attention had already returned to the tablet.
"Your contract with Sartori."
Aren blinked. "I’m sorry?"
"The terms," he said. "What he asked of you. Tell me."
