She Ran Into a Mafia Boss’s Restaurant to Save His Dying Dog — Then the Ruthless Don Declared She Was Under His Protection
Chapter 5
Three days passed in a rhythm Isabella hadn’t known since before her world collapsed. Morning examinations of Piccolo in the garden. Afternoon meals she actually ate. Evening visits from Enzo that grew longer each night — first ten minutes, then thirty, then an hour of sitting on the guest house terrace, the puppy asleep between them, talking about nothing and everything.
She learned that he’d inherited the business at twenty-three after his father was killed. That he’d spent fifteen years consolidating power, making allies, eliminating threats. That he collected vintage watches but never wore them. That he sang opera in the shower when he thought no one was listening.
He learned that she’d wanted to be a veterinarian since she was seven, when her childhood dog had died of a treatable condition her family couldn’t afford to treat. That she’d worked three jobs through veterinary school. That Dr. Ramirez had been more than a professor — he’d been the first person who made her believe she could be more than her circumstances.
On the fourth day, Marco dropped a book.
It was nothing — a leather-bound ledger that slipped from the side table and hit the marble floor with a sharp crack.
Isabella was on her feet and halfway to the door before her conscious mind registered what had happened. Her body coiled tight, ready to run.
She froze when she realized what she’d done.
Marco was staring at her. Enzo, seated in his chair with Piccolo on his lap, had gone very still.
“Sorry.” She forced herself to walk back. Her hands were shaking. “Sorry. I just —”
“When did it start?”
“What?”
“The running.” He watched her with those dark, calculating eyes. “I’ve seen it before. Men who came back from war with their nerves shot. Can’t handle sudden movements. Always looking for exits.”
He paused.
“You do that. Every room you enter, you clock the exits first. You never sit with your back to a door.”
Isabella’s throat felt tight. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You flinch when people move too fast. You barely eat. You don’t sleep — I’ve seen the lights on in the guest house at three in the morning.”
He set Piccolo gently on the floor.
“Someone hurt you. Or someone’s trying to.”
“I should go.” She stood, looking for her bag. “Piccolo’s doing well. You don’t really need me to —”
“*Sit down.*”
It wasn’t a request.
She found herself sinking back into her chair, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Enzo walked to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured, handed one to her. “Drink.”
She took it with trembling hands. The whiskey burned going down.
“I had Marco do some research.” His voice was conversational, but she could hear the weight behind each word. “We know you have veterinary training. So Marco started checking programs in the region, looking for students who disappeared in the last year or so.”
Isabella’s fingers tightened on the glass.
“Cross-referenced with missing person’s reports. Unsolved cases.”
“You had no right —”
“Isabella Maria Romano.” He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Top of your class at Metro State Veterinary School. Two published papers before you even graduated. Your professors called you a prodigy. You were being recruited by the best animal hospitals in three states.”
He leaned forward.
“And then eight months ago, you vanished.”
“*Stop.*”
“The same week you disappeared…” His voice gentled. “A veterinary professor named Dr. Miguel Ramirez was murdered. Three shots to the chest. Execution style. The police called it a robbery. But we both know it wasn’t.”
Her hands were shaking so badly that whiskey sloshed over the rim. Enzo took the glass from her before she could drop it.
“Dr. Ramirez treated a dog that belonged to a federal informant. A man who was going to testify against the Los Santos cartel. The feds used a civilian vet to stay off the radar. The cartel found out anyway.”
“They made an example.”
“I was there.” The words tore out of her. “I was doing a rotation at his clinic. I saw them come in. I hid in the supply closet. I watched through the crack in the door while they —”
She broke. Her hands moved to her face.
“He begged them. Told them he didn’t know anything. They shot him anyway.”
“One of them saw you,” Enzo said. It wasn’t a question.
“When they were leaving. Our eyes met through the crack. Just for a second. But it was enough.”
She lowered her hands.
“I ran. Emptied my bank account. Three hundred and twelve dollars. I’ve been moving ever since. Never staying anywhere more than a few nights. Never using my real name. Never using my skills — because I knew that if they found out I was alive, they’d come for me too.”
“Los Santos.” Enzo’s voice had gone cold. “They’re vicious. They don’t leave witnesses.”
“I know. That’s why I can’t stay here. If they connect me to you —”
Enzo smiled. Not a pleasant smile. A predator’s smile. All teeth and promise.
“Isabella, I don’t think you understand how this works.”
He leaned back, completely relaxed.
“The Los Santos cartel operates on my sufferance in this city. They pay tribute to move their product through my territory. They ask permission before they conduct business. They are — in the grand scheme of things — small fish in a very large pond.”
He paused.
“They killed Dr. Ramirez in broad daylight because he wasn’t under anyone’s protection. But you are. You saved Piccolo. That makes you *la famiglia*. And the Bellini family doesn’t bow to cartels.”