A Giant Black Dog Found a Dying Mafia Boss in the Snow — What Happened Next Was Incredible

Chapter 8

Frankie Doyle’s net tightened around Hollow Creek on a cold gray afternoon.

He stepped into Mrs. Hattie’s Diner, sat down at the counter, and ordered a cup of coffee he didn’t drink. His cold eyes swept the room, measuring every person inside it.

Mara was wiping a table in the corner when he spoke.

“Lotta strangers passing through these parts lately?” His voice was falsely gentle.

She didn’t look up. “Not really. Most people who come here are lost.”

He laughed. A dry sound. “I’m looking for someone. A man. Tall. Dark hair. Scar on his jaw. Can’t walk. Would’ve shown up here maybe a week or two ago.”

Mara’s hand tightened on the cloth.

She didn’t answer immediately. She lifted her head and met his eyes. And in that moment, something in her—the same thing that had made her drag a dying stranger through a blizzard—rose up and made a decision.

“Haven’t seen anyone like that.”

Frankie held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded. Dropped a bill on the counter. And left.

Mara stood frozen, the cloth still in her hand, her heart hammering so loud she was sure the whole diner could hear it.

She didn’t know who that man was. But she knew what he was looking for. And she knew—with a certainty that frightened her—that she had just lied for a man whose real name she didn’t even know.

—

She ran home through the snow.

Burst through the door. Found Roman sitting in his wheelchair by the window, Bear at his side.

“There was a man,” she said, breathless. “At the diner. Asking about a wounded man. Dark hair. Scar on his jaw. He described you.”

Roman’s face went still. Not surprised. As if he had been expecting this news for days.

“Did he see you?”

“I served him coffee.”

“Did he follow you home?”

“I don’t think so. But he will. He’ll ask around. Someone will talk.”

Roman gripped the arms of the wheelchair. His mind was already moving, calculating, searching for an exit that didn’t exist. He was still paralyzed. Still trapped. Still dependent on a woman who had just put herself in danger simply by not betraying him.

“You should have told him,” Roman said. “You should have handed me over.”

She stared at him. “Is that what you would have done?”

“Yes.” The word came out flat. Final.

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

She turned away. But before she could leave the room, he spoke again.

“Mara.”

She stopped.

“I need to tell you who I am.”