She Ran Into a Mafia Boss’s Restaurant to Save His Dying Dog — Then the Ruthless Don Declared She Was Under His Protection

Chapter 4

The guest house was larger than any apartment Isabella had ever lived in. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked manicured gardens. Furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine. A refrigerator full of actual food — not scraps, not garbage, but fresh fruit and vegetables and cheeses she couldn’t pronounce.

She broke down crying in front of the open refrigerator, her body racking with sobs she’d held back for months.

—

Enzo arrived precisely at seven that evening. Piccolo trotted beside him on a leather leash — dark brown, expensive, the kind of accessory that cost more than most people’s rent.

She’d dressed in the clothes they’d provided. Simple jeans and a sweater that actually fit. She pulled her damp hair into a ponytail and felt almost human again.

“How’s he been?” she asked, kneeling to let Piccolo sniff her hand. The puppy’s tail went into overdrive.

“Good. Better than good, actually.” Enzo watched her with that same intense focus from the restaurant. “He’s been more energetic than I’ve seen him in weeks.”

Isabella ran her hands over Piccolo’s body. Breathing clear. Heart rate good. She lifted his lip to check his gums — pink and healthy.

But something nagged at her.

“What do you feed him?”

Enzo blinked. “The best filet mignon, usually. Sometimes salmon. Fresh food. Nothing processed.”

“You’re poisoning him.”

The words came out harsher than she intended. Behind Enzo, a man near the door stiffened. You didn’t tell Enzo Bellini he was doing something wrong.

Isabella was looking at Piccolo’s eyes — the slight redness around them. The faint irritation on his skin.

“This is inflammation. He’s having an allergic reaction. French bulldogs can’t handle the fat content in filet mignon. It causes chronic inflammation, weakens their immune system, makes them susceptible to exactly what happened at the restaurant.”

Enzo stared at her. “You’re telling me I nearly killed my dog by feeding him too well?”

“I’m telling you that what’s good for humans isn’t always good for dogs.”

The silence stretched. Isabella realized she was still on her knees, scolding a mafia boss in his own guest house about his dog food.

Then Enzo laughed. A full, genuine laugh that transformed his entire face.

“Marco, are you hearing this? She just called me an idiot.”

“I didn’t —”

“You did.” He knelt down beside her — close enough that she could smell his cologne, cedar and something warm. He scratched Piccolo behind the ears, his expression softening. “And you’re right. I’ve been making him sick trying to show him I care.”

He looked at her. “What kind of diet does he need?”