Her Puppy Chose the Mafia Boss… And Exposed a Hidden Truth

Chapter 2

He stopped a few feet away, that almost-smile I’d already started looking for at the corner of his mouth. “Ruby. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I’m working.” I gestured at my camera, unnecessarily. “You?”

“Family friend. I couldn’t decline the invitation.”

He asked about Milo first — remembered his name, asked how he was doing. I told him Milo had been acting strange since the rain, sitting by the door at odd hours, whining at nothing, like he was waiting for someone he couldn’t find. I watched his guarded face soften a single degree at the idea that a dog might be missing him.

“How’s Argus?” I asked. It was a gamble. I needed to know.

For a long moment I didn’t think he’d answer. His gaze drifted past me, toward the ocean beyond the tents, and something old and heavy crossed his face. Then, measured, each word placed like a stone: “Our summer house caught fire the summer I turned fifteen. Argus woke me — barking, raking his paws at my bedroom door. The ground floor was already lost to the flames by the time I got out. He ran back inside anyway. They found him later, in the hallway outside my mother’s room.”

“Your mother—”

“She’d had a heart attack. In her sleep. The smoke never touched her.” He said it carefully, like the words had been arranged once and never allowed to move. “But Argus tried to save her anyway. He went back for her. He chose to go back.”

His voice, so controlled, caught on the final word. “I blamed myself for years. If I’d gotten to him sooner. If I’d been faster. If I’d made him stop.” He finished his drink. “I’ve never owned a dog since that night. Couldn’t bring myself to risk that kind of loss again.”

He gave me a business card — not the one from the rain; this one had a name, a number, an address in the financial district. “I have work for you. Corporate photography for my offices. Call Monday.” A pause. “I’d rather hire someone whose dog showed excellent judgment in character.”

I laughed — actually laughed, in the middle of a stranger’s wedding, at a man who’d just handed me the two deepest wounds of his life.

Thursday, I photographed Marchetti Imports, fourteenth floor, glass and steel and views of the city. He stayed in a corner of the conference room the whole session, quiet, watching — and I felt it the way you feel a hand hovering near your skin. When it was done, he walked me to the elevator.

Just before the doors closed, he said: “Milo made quite an impression. I’d like to find out if his owner did the same. Saturday. Prospect Park. Bring him.”

The doors shut on my racing heart before I could answer.