Her Puppy Chose The Mafia Boss, And Ignored Her Calls

Chapter 6

Her apartment was destroyed.

Not just ransacked. *Destroyed.* Her sagging couch was slashed, stuffing pulled out. The small table overturned. Her textbooks ripped, pages scattered. Her tiny mini-fridge open, its contents smeared on the floor. They had torn open her pillows, her mattress, her one small dresser.

They had been showing her how easily they could reach her.

“Oh God,” she whispered, tears blurring her vision. “They touched everything.”

“Don’t touch anything.” Dominic’s voice was terrifyingly calm — a stillness that promised a hurricane.

“My pictures — the pictures of my mom —”

“Emily. It’s all gone.”

She turned to him. “Who? Who would *do* this?”

“My rival. A man named Marco Varulli. He saw us at the gala. He thinks you’re my weakness.”

“Am I?” she whispered.

His dark eyes met hers. The fury was replaced by a look of such pained regret it stole her breath.

“Yes.”

He stepped over the debris and plucked something off the floor. The pink eviction notice — now trampled, a muddy boot print across it.

“You were leaving anyway.”

She nodded, wiping her face. “I have nowhere to go. I was going to try a shelter.”

“No.” The word was absolute. “You’re coming with me. To my home. The penthouse. You will stay there. You will be safe.”

“What about Bolt?”

“I sent Antonio to get him from your dog walker two hours ago. He’s already there.”

She stared at him.

He had known about the break-in for hours. He had retrieved her dog. He had come to her work, his fury contained until he’d seen her safe and unharmed.

He had *planned* this.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No. You don’t.”

—

The penthouse was less a home and more a fortress in the sky.

It took up the top two floors of the Moretti Building — a sterile, minimalist expanse of glass, steel, and white marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a god’s-eye view of Westbridge. But the glass was inches thick. Bulletproof. Bomb-proof.

Bolt, however, was in heaven. He greeted her at the private elevator door with a joyful bark, his tail wagging.

The guest room was four times the size of her entire apartment. A king-sized bed. A bathroom that looked like a spa.

“Bolt can stay with you,” Dominic said, standing stiffly in the doorway. “My room is on the floor above. This floor is yours. No one will bother you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, clutching her backpack — the only thing she had left in the world.

—

The days that followed were thick with tension.

Dominic was there. But he was a ghost. He kept his distance, his face a mask of cold control. He was trying to honor the line he’d drawn in the car.

But they were *living together.*

She’d see him in the morning — already in a suit, drinking espresso at the massive kitchen island, his jaw tight as he read reports on a tablet. He’d nod. “Good morning.”

She’d see him at night — his tie loosened, the scent of the city and his sandalwood cologne clinging to him. He looked exhausted. And dangerous.

One night — four days after she’d moved in — she found him staring out the massive window at the city lights, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

“You haven’t eaten.”

He didn’t turn. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.”

She walked into the kitchen. *His* kitchen — a high-tech marvel of stainless steel he probably never used. She opened the industrial-sized refrigerator.

It was full of *nothing.* Bottles of water. Condiments. A plastic container of olives.

“You don’t have any food.”

“I eat out.”

“Well, I’m starving. And I’m going to order food.” She paused. “Or I could cook. If you’d have someone get groceries.”

A flicker crossed his face. Surprise. Amusement.

“You want to cook?”

“I want to do *something.* I’m tired of being a prisoner. I want to feel normal. Please.”

An hour later, two of his men delivered four bags of groceries.

She set to work. Simple pasta. Garlic. Tomatoes. Basil. The kitchen was soon filled with warm, rich scent.

Dominic didn’t leave. He sat at the island, watching her.

“You’re good at that.”

“My mom taught me. It was the one thing we did together that was — nice.”

She found two plates. Served him. Served herself.

They ate in silence. It was comfortable. Domestic.

Bolt, sensing the change, trotted in and laid his head on Dominic’s knee. Dominic automatically started scratching the dog’s ears.

“You seem so tense all the time,” she said. “Like you’re carrying the whole world.”

“I am.”

She risked a small joke. “Well — you should put it down. At least for dinner.”

She smiled at him. A small, tentative smile.

And he *smiled* back.

It wasn’t the ghost of a smile from the car. It was real. Small. Unguarded. It transformed his harsh face, making him look younger — and devastatingly sad.

Her breath caught.

He opened his mouth to say something —

And the world went black.