Chapter 4 - The Touch Under the Chin
The change occurred in the space of half a heartbeat.
The low growl died entirely, cutting off with a soft, breathy huff that blew the dust on the sheepskin rug.
Bruno’s back legs, which had been coiled like steel springs to launch his hundred-and-thirty-pound frame forward, suddenly relaxed. The cropped black ears, pinned back in aggression seconds before, slid forward, softening against his skull. His heavy, cropped tail, usually held rigid or clamped low, gave a single, slow, hesitant thump against the floorboards.
Thump.
Then, before the disbelieving eyes of four hardened criminals and a terrified mother, the massive black war dog slowly lowered his hindquarters to the travertine floor.
He sat.
He sat directly in front of the little girl, his massive chest level with her shoulders, towering over her like an obsidian monolith.
Sophia didn't hesitate. She stepped forward the remaining twelve inches until the hem of her pale blue dress brushed against his heavy black front paws. She reached up with her small hand, her knuckles turning upward, and gently curled her fingers beneath Bruno’s massive, loose black jowls.
She stroked the soft, warm fur beneath his chin.
Bruno’s eyes closed.
A deep, contented sigh escaped the dog’s black lips—a sound like air hissing from a heavy pneumatic tire. He leaned his massive, bone-crushing head forward by two inches, resting the heavy weight of his scarred skull directly against the palm of her tiny hand, his cropped tail now beating a steady, rhythmic cadence against the Persian rug.
Thump... thump... thump.
Behind the desk, Marcus Vance let out a long, ragged exhale, his hand slowly sliding off the grip of his sidearm. The two guards by the credenza looked at each other, their jaws hanging slack, their faces pale with shock.
"Jesus Christ," Vance muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "I've seen that dog take down a guy in a bite suit and snap the arm bone through the padding. What the hell just happened?"
Sophia giggled, a bright, clear sound that shattered the heavy, masculine tension of the room. She used her other hand to pick up the purple marker from between the dog's paws, slipping it into the small pocket of her blue dress.
"He likes purple, Mami," Sophia called out happily, looking back over her shoulder toward the doorway. "His chin is ticklish."
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In the doorway, Rosa Alvarez’s knees finally gave out completely.
She collapsed to her knees on the hard marble floor of the gallery, her back leaning against the doorjamb, her hands covering her face as silent, shuddering sobs of pure, overwhelming relief racked her slender frame.
