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

Four days passed in a blur of luxury and silent terror.

The East Wing suite Dante gave me was larger than my entire apartment in Dundalk. It featured velvet drapes, a king-sized canopy bed, a private balcony overlooking the manicured gardens, and a bathroom made entirely of dark Italian marble.

Every morning at six, two guards delivered a tray of fresh coffee, fruit, and hot pastries. Every afternoon, my brother Marcus called my cell phone, practically screaming with excitement about his new braces, his fully stocked refrigerator, and the two polite "security guards" sitting in a black SUV outside our old apartment who had helped him carry his groceries upstairs.

Dante kept his word. My family was safe, rich, and protected.

But I was a golden captive.

Titan barely left my side. His wound was healing cleanly, and he followed me through the long, echoing corridors of the mansion like a gargoyle brought to life. He slept on the rug at the foot of my bed, waking up only when I moved.

On Friday evening, a heavy knock sounded on my suite door.

I opened it to find a young woman wearing a tailored maid uniform, holding a long, garment bag made of dark hanging silk.

"Mr. Vescari requests your presence at dinner tonight in the main dining hall," she said respectfully. "He asked you to wear this."

I unzipped the bag. Inside hung a breathtaking, deep emerald-green velvet dress with an asymmetrical neckline and a subtle side slit. It was elegant, expensive, and clearly tailored to my exact measurements.

An hour later, I walked down the grand marble staircase, my heart hammering against my ribs. Titan walked slowly beside me, his black coat gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.

The grand dining hall was filled with light, heavy laughter, and the scent of roasted meats and vintage wine.

Around a long mahogany table sat eight men in expensive dark suits. At the head of the table sat Dante Vescari, looking like a dark king presiding over a kingdom of wolves.

Sitting to his right was a sharp-featured man with slicked-back dark hair and a cold, arrogant sneer—Carlo Vescari, Dante’s younger cousin and the underboss of the Baltimore operations.

When I stepped into the room, the conversations instantly died out.

Eight pairs of eyes landed on me. Then eight pairs of eyes landed on the massive black pit bull walking calmly at my side without a leash or a muzzle.

"What is this?" Carlo demanded, standing up from his chair, his eyes narrowing at me. "Dante, why is the laundry girl wearing a five-thousand-dollar dress at our executive table? And why is that fucking beast loose in the room?!"

Dante didn't rise. He took a slow sip from his crystal glass of Cabernet, his dark eyes tracking my every movement as I approached the table.

"Sit down, Carlo," Dante said, his voice quiet, yet carrying enough threat to make the temperature in the room drop ten degrees. "Rosalyn is my guest. And Titan’s handler."

"Handler?!" Carlo laughed mockingly, though he took a cautious step back as Titan stopped beside my chair and sat down, resting his broad chin on my knee. "She’s a twenty-two-year-old vet tech from Dundalk! You brought a civilian into the inner circle while federal agents are breathing down our necks over the Port seizure?!"

"She saved Titan's life," Dante replied coldly. "Which is more than I can say for the men who were supposed to be guarding the south grounds the night he was cut."

I kept my right ear turned toward the table, listening intently. As Dante spoke, my eyes swept across the men seated around us.

I noticed something.

When Dante mentioned the cut on Titan’s shoulder, Carlo’s left hand twitched violently against his napkin. His eyes darted to the man sitting beside him—Marco, Dante’s head of shipping logistics. Marco’s collar suddenly looked too tight; he swallowed hard and reached for his water glass, his fingers trembling slightly.

Titan let out a low, vibration-deep growl beneath my palm.

He didn't growl at Dante. He didn't growl at the guards near the doors.

His ears flattened, his eyes locked dead on Marco.

Titan remembered the smell.

I leaned toward Dante, keeping my voice low enough so only he could hear. "The man who cut Titan used an alcohol-based disinfectant after he did it. Probably to clean the blood off his own hands."