Her Dog Escaped Into The Mafia Boss’s Penthouse — She Had to Join His Family Lunch to Get Him Back

Chapter 5

The morning sun filtering into 9C was pale and unconvincing, casting long gray shadows across Lena’s drafting table. She sat with a mug of coffee gone cold twenty minutes earlier, staring at a half-finished watercolor peony, its petals bruised, the pinks muddying into browns. She could not find the light.

At nine o’clock, a sharp, authoritative knock shattered the silence. Lena froze. Otis, curled under her chair, let out a low growl. She crept to the peephole, socks sliding silently on the hardwood, and through the fisheye lens saw two men in charcoal suits that fit too well, sunglasses hiding their eyes despite the dim hallway lighting. Not police. Not delivery, whatever they claimed.

“Who is it?” she called, her voice thin.

“Delivery for Miss Marsh,” one said, his voice flat, devoid of any regional accent.

“Leave it on the mat.”

A pause, heavy, the specific silence of men assessing the strength of a door between them and whatever they wanted. Then the soft slide of paper against wood. “Have a good day, Miss.”

She waited five full minutes after their footsteps faded toward the elevator before unlocking the deadbolt. A thick, cream-colored envelope lay on her cheap welcome mat. Heavy. She brought it inside and tore it open with trembling fingers. Crisp hundred-dollar bills slid out — five thousand dollars, at a glance, more money than she’d made in the last four months combined. Tucked behind the cash was a note in bold, angular handwriting.

Lunch was delightful. I’d like to see you again.

Lena stared at the money, then at the note. Her stomach churned. It felt like payment — for the entertainment she’d provided, or perhaps a down payment on something else entirely. Anger, hot and sudden, burned away the lingering fear from the day before. She marched to the kitchen and threw the envelope, cash, note, and all, into the trash.

“I’m not a stray,” she whispered to the empty room.

She tried to work. She forced herself to mix pigments, to focus on the delicate curve of a stem, but every time she closed her eyes she saw him — the dark intelligence in his gaze, the terrifying grace with which he’d commanded an entire room, the ghost of his fingers on her wrist that cold water couldn’t wash away.

By afternoon, the walls felt like they were closing in. She needed air. “Walk?” she asked Otis, who perked up immediately, tail thumping. Outside, the city was loud and chaotic, usually a source of anxiety for her, but today it felt like a shield. Crowds meant witnesses. She walked briskly toward the park three blocks away, the air crisp with exhaust and roasted nuts.

Two blocks from the tower, she felt the prickle at the back of her neck — an old, animal instinct, the feeling of being hunted. She glanced over her shoulder. Traffic was heavy, a river of yellow cabs and delivery trucks. But cruising in the right lane, keeping her exact walking pace, was a black sedan with windows tinted darker than any legal limit allowed.

Lena stopped walking. The car stopped. She turned abruptly into a convenience store, standing in the aisle pretending to examine protein bars, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. Through the front window, the black car idled at the curb. Waiting. She bought a bottle of water she didn’t want, just for an excuse to be there, then walked home by a zigzagging route through an alley, not breathing easily until she was behind her own triple-locked door.

Night fell, taking her courage with it. She sat on the sofa in the dark, Otis’s head in her lap, watching shadows lengthen across the floor. She didn’t want to be a silhouette against her own window.

At ten o’clock, the scratching started. Faint, metal on metal. Then the distinct sound of a doorknob turning, slowly, deliberately. Lena bolted upright, clutching Otis to silence him. The lock held, but the knob turned again, harder this time. Then a thud — a shoulder against the wood.

Her hands shook so badly she dropped her phone twice dialing 911.

“What is your emergency?”

“Someone is trying to break into my apartment,” she hissed, retreating to the bathroom, the farthest point from the door. “I’m at the Ashford Tower. Apartment 9C.”

“The Ashford Tower?” The dispatcher’s tone shifted instantly, urgent turning hesitant. “Are you sure, ma’am? That building has private security.”

“I don’t care. Someone is kicking my door.”

“We’ll send a unit to check the perimeter,” the dispatcher said, sounding bored. “It’s likely a confused neighbor. Sit tight.”

The call ended. They weren’t coming, or if they were, they weren’t rushing. The thudding at the door stopped. Silence reclaimed the hallway, but the safety was gone — not because anyone had gotten in, but because she now understood, with terrible clarity, exactly how thin the walls were and how little the law meant inside them.

Ten minutes later, her phone rang. Blocked number.

“Hello?”

“Pack a bag.” Low, rich, unmistakable.

“What — who is this?”