Her Puppy Chose The Mafia Boss, And Ignored Her Calls

Chapter 7

The lights. The hum of the fridge. The digital clock on the oven. Everything vanished.

The penthouse was plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.

“It’s just a blackout.” Dominic’s voice came through the dark, calm and steady.

But Emily wasn’t listening.

Her heart was a trapped bird in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. The darkness was total, pressing in on her, heavy and hot.

“Emily.”

She was shaking. A low keening sound left her throat. “No — no — no —”

She scrambled back, knocking her stool over. She hit the counter, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

“Emily.” His voice was sharp now.

A small, bright light clicked on. His phone’s flashlight.

He was in front of her. His face a mask of confusion and concern.

She flinched, throwing her hands up. “Don’t — please — don’t lock it —”

“Lock *what?*” He put the phone down, the beam pointing at the ceiling. “Emily — it’s me. It’s Dominic. You’re safe. *Breathe.*”

“I can’t — I can’t breathe —”

He gripped her shoulders. His hands were like steel, holding her steady.

“I *hate* the dark. I *hate* it.”

“I’ve got you.”

His voice was a low, rough rumble. He pulled her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her tight. His hand came up to cup the back of her head.

He was so solid. So warm.

“It was just a power surge. You’re in the penthouse. You are safe. I am *right here.*”

He just held her. Letting her tremble. Letting her sob into his shirt. He didn’t push. He just *held.*

After a long time, her breathing slowed. The shaking subsided.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her face still pressed against the warm, solid wall of his chest.

“Don’t be sorry.” His voice was thick. “Tell me why.”

She was quiet. The secret was old and hard.

But he had held her. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t told her to get over it.

“My stepfather,” she whispered. The words tasted like ash. “When I was little — when my mom was at work — if I made him angry, he would lock me in the root cellar. There were no lights. He’d leave me there for hours.” She took a ragged breath. “I’m just — still afraid of the dark.”

The arms around her tightened. She could feel the muscles in his chest and back contract, hardening like stone.

He was silent. But he was vibrating with a sudden, terrible stillness.

She leaned back, looking up at his face in the dim, reflected light.

He was *shaken.* His eyes were closed, his jaw set, but his expression was one of raw, unfiltered pain. A muscle in his cheek jumped.

When he opened his eyes, they were black with a lethal, terrifying rage. But it wasn’t for *her.*

“Where is he?” His voice trembled with a violence she had never heard.

“He’s dead. He drank himself to death years ago. It’s over.”

“It’s *not* over.” His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb rough and calloused as it stroked the tears from her cheek. “It’s not over if it still does this to you.”

He looked at her. His dark eyes blazing with a fierce, protective devotion that was more potent than any declaration of love.

“No one,” he said, his voice breaking, “will ever touch you again. No one will ever make you feel that way again. I swear on my life, Emily.”

The lights flickered. Hummed. Came back on.

The kitchen was bright again. Normal. The pasta cold on their plates.

But something had shifted. Irreversibly.

—

The call came three days later.

Emily was in the penthouse, Bolt asleep on her lap, when Dominic walked through the door in the middle of the afternoon — something he never did.

His face was different. Lighter. The tension in his jaw had eased.

“Marco Varulli is no longer a problem.”

She didn’t ask what that meant. She didn’t want to know.

“He left the city this morning. He won’t be back.” Dominic paused. “You’re free to go whenever you want. Your apartment has been restored. New furniture. New locks. The eviction has been handled.”

She looked down at Bolt. Then around the penthouse — the place that had felt like a gilded cage, but had somehow become something else.

“I don’t want to go.”

He stared at her.

“Emily —”

“You told me your world would eat me alive. But it hasn’t. It showed me that someone can hold me in the dark and not let go.” She stood up, Bolt stirring in her arms. “I spent my whole life being afraid. Of the dark. Of men. Of being poor. And then I chased my dog into your car, and for the first time — I felt *safe.*”

He crossed the room in three steps. His hands found her waist, pulling her close.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes, I do. I’m asking for *you.*”

He kissed her.

Not the hesitant, testing kiss from the car. This was a kiss of *claiming* — hungry, desperate, full of all the words he couldn’t say. His hands cradled her face like she was something precious, something he had been waiting for his entire life without knowing it.

When he broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers.

“I’m not a good man, Emily.”

“I know.”

“I’ve done terrible things.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

She smiled — a small, real smile.

“Because a good man would have let me walk home that night in the cold. You made me get in the car.”