I Bathed the Mafia Boss’s Killer Pit Bull, and He Told Me I Belonged to Him Before Sunrise

Dante Vescari didn’t step closer immediately. He stood at the threshold of the damp laundry room, his long charcoal coat wet from the Baltimore downpour, his dark eyes taking in every single detail of the scene.

He saw the porcelain basin filled with pink-tinged water. He saw my blood-soaked sleeves, my wet hair clinging to my cheeks, and my laundry boots sitting filled with water inside the sink. Most of all, he saw Titan—his vicious, hundred-and-ten-pound beast—resting his massive, scarred head against my shoulder, breathing in slow, rhythmic rasps.

"He was cut," I said, my voice trembling slightly, though I turned my right ear toward him so I wouldn't miss a single syllable he uttered. "It’s clean. A straight, four-inch laceration across the anterior deltoid muscle. It wasn't a fence or a dog fight, Mr. Vescari. Someone used a scalpel or a weighted trench knife."

Dante’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his tan, cut-glass jawline. "You know knives?"

"I know wounds," I replied, holding Titan’s neck still as the dog let out a soft whine. "I’m a certified vet tech. Or... I was, until three weeks ago. Muscle tissue is exposed. If this isn't sutured and disinfected within the hour, sepsis will set in."

Dante slowly closed the door behind him. The lock clicked into place with a heavy, final sound. He walked over to the industrial sink, his leather shoes making no noise against the wet concrete.

He reached down. I braced myself, expecting him to pull me away or grab the dog. Instead, his long, calloused fingers brushed gently over Titan’s forehead. The dog didn't growl. He didn't even stiffen. He just leaned deeper into my chest.

Dante’s dark eyes shifted from the dog to my face. Up close, he was terrifying. His gaze was cold, calculated, and possessed the kind of weight that made people look at the floor. But there was something else in his eyes—an eerie, razor-sharp intelligence.

"Titan killed a man six months ago," Dante said softly, his voice low and rich like velvet over stone. "He tore out the throat of an armed intruder who made it past my security gate. My handlers use six-foot catch-poles just to put food in his run. Yet you are sitting in a sink with him like he’s a lapdog."

"He’s deaf," I said plainly.

Dante went completely still. "What did you say?"

"He’s deaf in his left ear," I explained, turning slightly to show Dante the pale, jagged scar tucked right behind Titan’s left ear cavity. "The ear canal is completely collapsed from an old, untreated trauma. Probably a blow from a heavy object years ago before you got him. When people approach him from his blind side, he reacts out of fear because he can't hear them coming. Your handlers think he's unpredictable because they don't know how to approach a sensory-impaired animal."

I swallowed hard, looking straight into Dante's piercing eyes. "I’m deaf in my left ear, too. I recognized the way he turned his head."

A heavy, profound silence settled over the laundry room. The rain continued to hammer against the high basement windows. Dante stared at me as if I had just deciphered an ancient, forgotten language right in front of him.

"What is your name?" he asked quietly.

"Rosalyn Whitaker. Rosie."

"Rosie," he repeated, the name sounding foreign and dark on his tongue. He reached out and touched my wrist. His fingers were warm, his grip unyielding. He looked down at the blood staining my uniform sleeves. "You didn't run. You didn't scream for security."

"Running makes predator instincts kick in," I said softly. "And screaming just hurts my good ear."

A tiny, almost imperceptible curve touched the corner of Dante’s lips, though there was no warmth in it—only dark fascination. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a encrypted satellite phone, and pressed a single speed-dial button.

"Vance," Dante spoke into the phone without breaking eye contact with me. "Bring my private surgical kit to the basement laundry room. Now. And bring clean towels."

He ended the call and placed the phone back in his pocket. Then he leaned down, his face stopping inches from mine. The scent of rain, cedarwood, and expensive tobacco drifted off his coat.

"Ten minutes ago, you were a laundry girl earning twenty dollars an hour under the table, Rosalyn," Dante murmured, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Now, you know someone inside my house used a blade on my personal guard dog. You know my dog's secret. And you hold his life in your wet hands."

"I don't care about your mafia business, Mr. Vescari," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I just want to fix his leg and go home to my brother."

"You aren't going home tonight," Dante said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, terrifying authority. "Starting right now, you no longer work for the laundry service. You belong to my personal household. You stay on this estate, under my roof, where I can see you."

"I have a sixteen-year-old brother—"

"Your brother will have his rent paid, his groceries delivered, and his braces funded by my office before sunrise," Dante interrupted smoothly. "He will be protected. But you stay here. With Titan. And with me."

"Why?" I gasped.