THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME SERVE HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER WITHOUT EVER TURNING MY BACK TO THE TABLE—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CAUGHT HER UNIFORM ON THE KENNEL GATE,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY I WAS HIDING MY SHOULDER.

The antique grandfather clock in Luca’s study ticked with agonizing precision. Ten-fourteen.

For three full seconds, the room existed in a vacuum where no air moved. Luca didn’t shout. He didn’t slam his hand on the mahogany desk. That was the most terrifying thing about him. When regular men became unhinged, they grew loud. When Luca Moretti reached the point of no return, he went completely, chillingly still.

The only sign of his rage was a single vein throbbing along his jawline and the hand gripping the edge of his mother’s blue blanket, his knuckles turning porcelain-white.

"Which clinic, Daniel?" Luca asked. His voice was lower than a whisper, but it carried the weight of a dropped guillotine.

"Saint Jude Emergency Animal Hospital in Hammond, boss. Just across the state line," Daniel answered through the speakerphone. "The intake nurse said the authorization paperwork came through via encrypted fax at nine-forty-five. Signed under your digital signature key."

"Call them. Put the clinic director on my line."

"I tried, boss. The front desk says once an aggressive-surrender authorization is logged under emergency intake, their protocols require immediate sedation prior to the final procedure. They won't take outside calls regarding patient status without in-person legal verification because..." Daniel swallowed hard. "Because the paperwork flagged the animal as having inflicted severe bodily harm on domestic staff."

Luca’s cold gray eyes shifted to me. To the sterile white bandage peeking over my collarbone.

Vanessa hadn’t just tried to get rid of an old dog. She had weaponized my blood to build a paper trail. She had used the torn uniform, the scrape she caused with her own manicured hands, to fabricate a vicious dog attack that gave the veterinary clinic legal immunity to end Bruno's life without a waiting period.

"Get the cars," Luca said.

"They're at the front portico, sir."

"Not the front," Luca commanded, his voice slicing through the heavy air. "Bring the armored Suburban to the kitchen service ramp. If Vanessa sees an escort mobilizing, she makes a phone call. I don't want her dialing a single soul until I hold that leash in my hands."

He hung up, pocketed his phone, and grabbed his heavy black cashmere coat from the armchair. As he swung it over his broad shoulders, his gaze pinned me to the sofa.

"Emma."

I flinched, instinctively pulling my cardigan tighter over my bandaged shoulder. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"

"Can you walk?"

"I... yes, sir. But you don't need me. I should stay out of the way—"

"You're the victim named on that intake form," he interrupted, stepping around the massive desk until his polished dress shoes were inches from my worn flats. He towered over me, smelling of cedarwood, rain, and cold tobacco. "You're the girl Bruno supposedly tore open. If I walk in there with a dozen armed men, they lock the doors and call the local sheriff, and by the time my lawyers sort through the red tape, it's too late. But if you walk through those doors and show them that your injuries didn't come from that dog, they have to stop the procedure."

My breath caught. "She'll fire me, Mr. Moretti. The moment you leave, if she's still in this house, she'll call the agency. She'll blackball me from every estate in Chicago."

Luca reached down. His fingers, calloused and warm, brushed lightly against the edge of my jaw, tilting my face upward so I was forced to meet his stare.

"Emma, after tonight, Vanessa Bellini won't have the authority to dismiss a stray cat from this property, let alone you. You have my word. Now get up."

The drive to Hammond, Indiana, was a blur of rain, asphalt, and blue emergency strobes.

Luca didn't use sirens, but the convoy of three black vehicles drove through red lights on the outbound expressway at nearly ninety miles an hour. Inside the cabin, the silence was deafening. Luca sat in the rear captain's chair beside me, scrolling through his tablet, watching the security feeds from the mansion.

On the screen, the engagement dinner was winding down. Guests were kissing Vanessa's cheeks, murmuring congratulations, while she stood by the grand staircase holding a glass of vintage Pinot Noir, laughing gracefully. She thought she had won. She thought the old dog was already cold, and that the only remaining piece of Luca’s dead mother was erased forever.

Ten-thirty-eight.

The tires screeched against the wet gravel of a nondescript commercial park off Interstate 90. Saint Jude Emergency Animal Hospital was a squat, sterile brick building under buzzing sodium lights.

Before the Suburban completely stopped, Luca kicked open his door.

"Stay behind me until I tell you to speak," he ordered.

He didn't wait for his security detail to flank him. He pushed through the glass double doors with such force that the automated chime died mid-ring. The sterile smell of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic hit us instantly.

Behind the high reception counter, a young receptionist with tired eyes looked up from a computer monitor, startled by the arrival of a soaking-wet man in a four-thousand-dollar suit followed by four hulking guards in tailored overcoats.

"Sir? Can I help you? We're emergency intake only right now—"

"Where is the golden retriever surrendered under the name Moretti?" Luca asked. His voice wasn't raised, but it filled the small lobby like thunder.

The girl blinked, her hands hovering nervously over her keyboard. "I... I can't release patient information without—"

"Listen to me very carefully," Luca said, planting both palms flat on the counter and leaning down until he was at eye level with her. "That dog is fourteen years old. He has severe hip dysplasia and cataracts. He was stolen from my home by a woman who forged my digital signature. If that needle touches his skin, I will buy this entire clinic by sunrise, bulldoze it into a parking lot, and ensure every medical license in this building is permanently revoked. Now tell me what room he is in."

The girl’s face went dead white. She fumbled with her mouse, her screen flickering. "Room... Room Three. Dr. Miller went back five minutes ago to prep the sedative."

Luca didn't wait for directions. He bypassed the security swing-gate with a kick that snapped the magnetic latch off its hinges.

We raced down the brightly lit corridor. The doors to Exam Room 3 were cracked open.

Inside, an elderly golden retriever lay curled on a cold stainless-steel table. Bruno looked tiny, far smaller than he had ever seemed in his massive velvet bed by the library fireplace. His golden fur was grayed around his snout, his rheumy eyes half-open and filled with confusion. A silver-haired veterinarian was tying an elastic tourniquet around Bruno’s shaved front right leg, while a veterinary technician held a syringe containing a thick, pinkish fluid.

Bruno let out a weak, raspy whimper, his tail barely thumping once against the metal slab.

"Stop!" I screamed before I could stop myself.

The vet’s head whipped around in shock. "What is the meaning of this? You cannot be back here!"

Luca moved like a phantom. In one stride, he crossed the room, caught the technician’s wrist in a vise grip, and twisted it just enough for the syringe to slip from her fingers, shattering on the tile floor in a pool of pink liquid.

"Don't touch him," Luca breathed.

"This animal was legally surrendered as dangerously aggressive!" the veterinarian shouted, reaching for the wall alarm. "He attacked a servant! We have the photographic affidavit right here on the portal!"

Luca stepped aside and pulled me into the light.

"Here is the servant," Luca said, his voice deadly quiet. "Emma, tell him."

I stepped toward the metal table, ignoring the sharp throbbing in my shoulder. "He didn't bite me. He has never bitten anyone in his entire life. I was pushed against an iron gate by the woman who brought him here."

Slowly, I reached out my hand toward the stainless steel.

The moment Bruno caught my scent, his clouded eyes brightened. He didn't growl. He didn't bare his teeth. With an effort that made his frail back legs tremble, he pulled his heavy head up and pressed his wet, gray nose directly into my palm, letting out a deep, shuddering sigh of pure relief.

Then his gaze drifted past me, toward the tall man standing in the doorway.

Bruno gave a soft, broken bark.

Luca’s chest heaved. The terrifying mafia boss vanished entirely. He walked to the table, wrapped his arms around the old dog's neck, and buried his face in the golden fur, his broad shoulders shaking once, twice, before he regained control of himself.

"I've got you, buddy," Luca whispered into the dog's ear, his voice rough with emotion. "I've got you. You're going home."

He looked up at the trembling veterinarian, his eyes burning with a promise that made the older man take two steps backward.

"Cancel the file," Luca said. "Carry him to my car. If he feels a single bump on the way out, I hold you personally responsible."

Five minutes later, Bruno was wrapped in his childhood blue blanket, resting comfortably across the leather backseat of the Suburban, his head resting in my lap as I gently stroked his ears. Luca sat opposite us, dialing his phone.

When Daniel picked up on the other end, Luca didn't waste a word.

"Daniel."

"Yes, boss?"

"Assemble the household staff in the grand foyer. Tell the caterers to stop cleaning. Wake up the Bellini family’s liaison in Chicago."