Her Puppy Chose The Mafia Boss, And Ignored Her Calls

Chapter 3

The two days that followed were a special kind of hell.

Emily’s part-time job at the diner was gone. She went in the next morning hoping to apologize, only to find Mr. Henderson looking pale and flustered, barely meeting her eyes, simply muttering that her final check was in the mail and that it was better for everyone if she moved on.

She knew — with a certainty that settled like ice in her stomach — that Dominic was responsible.

Now her meager savings were dwindling to nothing. The eviction notice on her door served as a constant, flapping reminder of her failure.

And Bolt, her beloved traitorous puppy, had become impossible.

He spent hours by the apartment door *whining.* A low, mournful sound that grated on her already fractured nerves. When she took him outside — on a new, thick leash she’d spent her grocery money on — he pulled. Pulled constantly, relentlessly, in one direction: *downtown.* Toward the black glass tower of the Sovereign Grand Hotel.

“He’s not your friend, Bolt,” she grumbled, planting her feet on the sidewalk as the dog strained against his harness. “He’s a mafia boss. You can’t just *visit* the mafia boss.”

Bolt, of course, disagreed. He’d had a taste of the high life — the armored car, the soundproof silence, the reverent ear scratches from a man who smelled like power. Her tiny, drafty apartment wasn’t cutting it anymore.

On the third morning, she was sitting at her particle-board table, staring at a stack of bills she couldn’t pay, drinking watery instant coffee. Bolt was predictably whining at the door.

Then the whining was joined by a new sound.

A knock.

It wasn’t the light, papery tap of the landlord. It was a solid, heavy *thud* — as if the person on the other side was striking the very center of the door with their fist.

Emily froze. Bolt stopped whining and let out a sharp, excited bark.

She crept to the door. Looked through the peephole.

The fisheye lens showed only the chest of a man in a dark, expensive suit. Antonio.

She fumbled with the chain, her hands shaking.

“Who is it?”

“Emily.”

The voice wasn’t Antonio’s. It was *his.* Dominic. It came through the thin wood of the door, low and vibrating, and she felt it clear in her bones.

She slid the chain back and opened the door.

He was standing in her dim, peeling hallway. Not in a tuxedo — another perfectly tailored suit, this one a dark navy, with an open-collared white shirt. He looked impossibly large. Impossibly out of place. Like a panther in a rabbit hutch.

Bolt exploded past her, wiggling and barking, his tail a blur, jamming his nose into Dominic’s immaculate trouser leg.

Dominic looked down at the dog. Then up at her.

“You had me tracked,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

Not a flicker of apology. He bent down and gave Bolt a firm scratch behind the ears. The dog instantly melted, rolling onto his back.

“He was agitated,” Dominic said, his gaze fixed on the dog. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Emily almost laughed. The only reason a man like Dominic Moretti would be in *this* neighborhood was if he owned the building — or was planning to burn it down.

“You’re a bad liar,” she said before she could stop herself.

His eyes snapped up. A spark of surprise. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

“Am I?”

“Come in,” she said, stepping back. What else could she do? He was already here.

He stepped inside, and the tiny apartment seemed to shrink by half. He filled the space, his presence absorbing the air and light. He looked around — the sagging couch that doubled as her bed, the hot plate on the counter, the tiny rattling mini-fridge. It was clean. But it was the clean of poverty.

“Can I offer you tea? All I have is Lipton.”

“Tea is fine.”

He sat at her wobbly two-person table. The chair groaned under his weight, but he sat with an easy grace, as if he belonged. Bolt settled happily on his feet.

She turned to the counter, her back to him, and boiled water on the hot plate. Her hands trembled so badly she nearly dropped the mugs. One was chipped. The other had a cartoon cat on it. A hot flush of shame rose through her.

“You were fired from the diner,” he stated.

She flinched. “How did you know?”

“I spoke with Mr. Henderson.”

“*Spoke* with him?” She turned, the steaming pot in her hand. “What does that mean? What did you *do?*”

“I merely ensured his business practices were being properly reviewed. He was violating several labor laws. He won’t be a problem for you again.”

She put the pot down with a thud. “You can’t just *do* that. You can’t just interfere in my life.”

“Why not?” Genuinely curious. “It was a problem. I fixed it.”

“That’s not how the world works.”

“It’s how *my* world works.” The gentleness was gone, replaced by the cold steel she’d heard in the car.

She brought him the tea. He took the cat mug without comment, his large, powerful hands wrapping around it.

They sat in silence for a moment. The only sound: *thump, thump, thump* — Bolt’s tail hitting the linoleum.

He looked at her, his gaze softening. “You’re strong, Emily. Stronger than you know. Juggling school, two jobs, *this.*” He gestured around the small apartment. “Most people would have broken.”

His words — spoken in that low, rough voice — hit her harder than any compliment she’d ever received. She felt a sudden, stupid prickle of tears.

“I don’t *feel* strong,” she whispered. “I feel like I’m failing.”

“You’re not failing. You’re surviving.”

He sipped the tea. Then, as if it were the most normal topic in the world: “This Saturday is the annual Children’s Hospital Gala. I’m attending.”

“Okay. Good. I hope they raise a lot of money.”

“I need a date.”

She let out a short, surprised laugh. “What? Mr. Moretti — no. Look at me. Look at *this* place. I don’t go to galas.”

“You don’t usually drink tea from a cat mug either. But we’re both here.”

“I’m not asking for gala material. I’m asking *you.*”

“Why? You could have anyone.”

He leaned forward, his dark eyes intense. “Because you, Emily Ross, are the only person I’ve spoken to in a decade who hasn’t wanted something from me. You didn’t even want my help when you clearly needed it. You just wanted your dog.”

“I can’t. I have nothing to wear. I wouldn’t know anyone. I just — I *can’t.*”

“Is that a no?”

“Yes. It’s a no. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. A flicker of something in his eyes — disappointment. He finished his tea, stood up, placed the mug carefully on the counter. Walked to the door.

He paused, his hand on the knob.

“My driver will pick you up at 7:00 on Saturday. A dress will be delivered to you. Don’t be late.”

Then he was gone.