Her Puppy Chose The Mafia Boss, And Ignored Her Calls
Chapter 2
“You’re a nurse?” Dominic asked, gesturing to her scrubs.
“Vet tech,” she corrected automatically. “I’m a veterinary student. Or — trying to be.”
“Trying?”
The word, spoken in that low rumble, demanded the truth.
“It’s expensive,” she said, her voice small. “I work two jobs. The clinic. And I’m a waitress at the Silver Star Diner.”
“The Silver Star on Third Street?”
She nodded, surprised he knew it.
“I’m late for my shift.”
“They can wait.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a statement of fact.
He looked at her again — his gaze unnervingly thorough. “You live alone?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “Just me and Bolt.”
“He’s a bad dog.”
“He’s not bad,” Emily said, a flash of defensiveness cutting through her fear. “He’s just energetic. He’s smart. He just needs training. I haven’t had time.”
“You don’t have time because you’re working to pay for a school you can’t afford, to live in a neighborhood you’re afraid to walk in.”
It wasn’t a question. He was reading her life story from her cheap shoes and her tired eyes.
The car stopped in front of her building. The bodyguard — Antonio — was out and opening her door before she could move.
“Come on, Bolt.” She reached for the dog.
Dominic gently lifted the sleeping, heavy puppy and placed him in her arms. For a moment, her hands brushed his. His skin was warm. His grip steady.
“Thank you,” she whispered, backing out of the car. “And I’m sorry again.”
“Emily.”
She paused halfway onto the sidewalk.
He was holding her phone. She hadn’t even realized she dropped it.
He didn’t hand it back. Instead, he held out his own.
“Your number.”
Her hand trembled as she took his phone — a sleek, heavy piece of black metal that probably cost more than her rent — and typed in her number. He handed her phone back.
When she looked at the screen, a new contact was saved. Just one name.
**Dominic**
“Keep your dog on a stronger leash.”
“I will.”
He added, his eyes holding hers: “I expect you to call me.”
“Why?”
His gaze flickered to the dog in her arms. “In case Bolt misses me again.”
The door shut. The black SUV pulled away, silent as a shark disappearing into deep water.
Emily stood on the cracked sidewalk, her arms aching, the warmth of her puppy seeping through her scrubs. She stared at the empty space where the car had been, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm.
That night, she was fired from the diner. Too late. Mr. Henderson hadn’t let her explain.
She went home, locked the three bolts on her flimsy door, and fed Bolt. She sat on her secondhand couch, the eviction notice staring at her from the kitchen counter.
She was fired. She was broke. She was terrified.
But as she sat there, she realized she wasn’t *just* terrified.
She opened her phone and looked at the new contact: *Dominic.*
She thought about the way he had looked at her — not with pity like her professors, not with hunger like the men at the diner. He had looked at her with *recognition.*
She remembered the strange, impossible feeling she’d had in that car, surrounded by armored steel and a man who radiated lethal power, with her disloyal dog asleep on his lap.
She had felt — for the first time in months — completely and utterly *safe.*
That night, Emily Ross didn’t dream about the eviction or the tuition or the manager who had yelled at her.
She dreamed about a deep, quiet voice that commanded the world to stop.
And about dark, intense eyes that saw straight through her.