Her Puppy Chose The Mafia Boss, And Ignored Her Calls

Chapter 4

The dress arrived on Saturday afternoon.

It wasn’t a dress. It was *armor.*

A column of deep emerald green silk, so dark it was almost black in the shadows. Impossibly simple. Impossibly elegant. It whispered of old money and quiet power. There were shoes too — simple black heels that looked delicate but were surprisingly comfortable.

He had known her size. Of course, he had.

At 7:00, she was standing on the curb, feeling like a child playing dress-up. The green silk was cool against her skin.

The black SUV glided to a stop.

Dominic was inside. Dressed in a black tuxedo.

If she thought he looked powerful in a suit, it was nothing compared to this. The stark black and white made him look harder, more dangerous, and devastatingly handsome.

He didn’t speak when she got in. He just *looked.* His eyes traveled from her hair — which she’d twisted into a passable knot — down the column of her throat, over the smooth silk, and back to her face.

He didn’t smile. But a muscle in his jaw tightened.

It was the loudest compliment she had ever received.

—

The ballroom at the Sovereign Grand was another world.

A sea of crystal chandeliers, white flowers, and champagne flutes. The air buzzed with string music and the murmur of hundreds of conversations. Everyone looked so perfect, so rich, so *bored.*

And they were staring.

Not at her. At *him.* They looked at him with a mixture of fear, respect, and nervous deference. And then their eyes would slide to her — dissecting her, dismissing her.

She wanted to run.

A warm, heavy hand settled on the small of her back. Dominic.

“Breathe, Emily.” His voice was so low it was just a vibration against her ear. “They don’t matter. You’re with me. Look at me.”

She turned her head. Her gaze locked with his.

And just like that — the ballroom, the music, the staring faces — all of it faded into a distant, unimportant blur. He had built a wall around the two of them.

He was fiercely attentive, his focus entirely on her, guiding her through the crowd, his hand never leaving her back.

Later, the orchestra began a slow, haunting waltz.

“I don’t dance,” she whispered, panic returning.

“Yes, you do.”

He didn’t ask. He simply put his glass down and led her onto the floor. One hand on her waist, his thumb stroking the silk. The other hand took hers, lacing their fingers together.

She was stiff as a board.

“Follow my lead.”

He pulled her closer, his hand sliding up her back. She rested her free hand on his shoulder, her fingers touching the crisp lapel of his tuxedo.

And they moved.

He was a phenomenal dancer — strong, confident, leading her effortlessly, as if they’d been doing this for a lifetime. She stumbled once, and his grip tightened, holding her steady.

She relaxed. She let go. She leaned into his strength, breathing in the scent of him — sandalwood, starch, and something uniquely, darkly male.

The world dissolved. There was only the music, the warmth of his hand, and the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

She looked up at his face — the hard line of his jaw, the faint scar through his eyebrow. He was watching her, his expression unreadable but intense.

Before she knew what she was doing, her hand moved. Her fingers — small and pale — lifted from his shoulder and brushed his cheek.

A feather-light touch. A question.

He stopped breathing.

The world snapped back into sharp focus. He stopped dancing, his eyes fixed on hers, blazing with sudden raw heat. The hand on her back clenched, pulling her hips flush against his.

The music swelled.

And then abruptly ended.

He didn’t let her go. Not for a long, agonizing moment. His chest rose and fell in a deep, unsteady breath.

“It’s time to leave.” His voice was a low rasp.