Her Puppy Chose The Mafia Boss, And Ignored Her Calls

Chapter 1

The puppy didn’t know he was running into a war zone.

He saw an open car door and thought: *adventure.*

Emily Ross saw her entire world — the only living thing that was truly hers — disappear into a matte black SUV that looked less like a vehicle and more like a piece of military hardware. The door hung open like a mouth. A man in a sharp suit stood beside it, scanning the street with eyes that missed nothing.

She didn’t think. She didn’t pause.

She chased her dog into the lion’s mouth.

“Bolt!” The cry was ripped from her throat as she launched off the curb, her hand outstretched, grabbing the heavy armored door just as the suit was turning. “Bolt, get out — bad dog — get OUT —”

And then she froze.

The interior of the car was dark, cool, and smelled impossibly clean — expensive leather and something faintly spicy, like sandalwood. The city’s noise vanished instantly, absorbed by soundproof glass.

And there was a man sitting inside.

He wasn’t just a man. He was a *presence.*

Dressed in a suit so perfectly tailored it looked stitched onto his frame. Dark charcoal gray. Silver-white collar. Black tie. His hair was dark and thick, brushed back from a face that looked carved from unforgiving marble. He sat in the profound stillness of a predator waiting.

Emily was half in, half out of the car, her gaze locked with his.

His eyes were the darkest brown she had ever seen. And they held her — not with surprise, but with a sudden, calculating intensity.

Bolt was on the plush floor mat, wiggling, his tail thumping, licking the man’s gleaming handmade leather shoe.

The suit outside finally reacted. He grabbed Emily’s arm, fingers digging into her bicep like steel bands. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get away from the car.”

The driver materialized at her other side.

“Let her go.”

The voice came from inside the car. Low. Quiet. It wasn’t a request.

The man holding her released her arm instantly, as if burned.

Emily was left kneeling on the asphalt, staring at the man in the darkness. “I’m sorry — my dog — he ran — he just jumped in — I didn’t mean —”

Bolt had graduated from the man’s shoe. He had hauled himself onto the pristine leather seat and was actively trying to lick the man’s face.

The man raised a hand — large, powerful, with clean short nails — and placed it on Bolt’s head.

Bolt instantly collapsed into a puddle of blissful fur, squirming under the touch, his tail thumping against the expensive upholstery.

The man looked from the dog to Emily. A flicker of something — not quite a smile, but a shadow of amusement — touched the corner of his mouth.

“He seems to like me.”

“He likes everybody,” Emily said miserably, still on her knees. “He has no survival instincts. Please, sir. I’m so sorry. Bolt, come —”

She reached for his collar.

Bolt *growled.* A low, playful rumble. And buried his head deeper into the man’s lap.

“He doesn’t want to go.”

“He has to — he’s getting your suit dirty — I’ll pay for cleaning — I mean, I can’t pay right now, but if you give me a bill —”

The man’s dark eyes traveled over her. He took in the faded, stained scrubs. The cheap cracked phone clutched in her hand. The raw red burn on her palm from the leash.

“Get in,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“Get in the car. You’re letting the cold air in.”

“I can’t — I just need my dog —”

“Your dog is in my car. He doesn’t seem to be leaving. So get in.” He turned his gaze to the bodyguard. “Antonio. Shut the door.”

It was an order.

Emily, caught between the terrifying man inside the car and the two terrifying men outside, scrambled. She fell into the vehicle, landing on the soft leather seat. The door shut behind her with a heavy, final thunk, plunging the world into absolute silence.

The car pulled away from the curb, gliding into traffic so smoothly she didn’t feel the motion.

She was in an armored car with a stranger.

“My name is Emily.”

“Dominic,” he replied. “Just Dominic.”

He leaned forward slightly, and the dim dashboard lights illuminated the hard planes of his face — the tension in his jaw, the faint silvery scar that cut through one dark eyebrow.

*Dominic Moretti.*

The name clicked in her brain with the cold, sharp shock of a bullet chambering. This wasn’t just a man. This was *the* man. The shadow of Westbridge. The head of the Moretti family.

Emily’s blood ran cold.

She had just chased her puppy into the personal vehicle of the city’s most infamous mafia boss.

And he was scratching her dog’s ears.

“Where do you live, Emily?”

She told him the cross streets. She was too scared to lie.

Bolt — the little traitor — had fallen fast asleep on Dominic Moretti’s lap.