The Clumsy Maid Drenched a Mafia Boss’s Killer Dog by Accident, but When the Beast Refused to Leave Her, the Don Discovered He Was the One Who Needed Training

The main dining room smelled of cigar smoke, spilled brandy, wet wool, and old leather.

A blue haze hung four feet thick beneath the heavy iron chandeliers, turning the yellow bulbs into soft, smudged globes of orange fire. Nine men sat around the long mahogany table.

At the head of the table sat Don Vincent Saleri.

He was seventy-eight years old, small, thin, with skin the color of old parchment and eyes that looked like two black beads set deep into a skull. He wore a three-piece suit of silver-gray silk, and his thin, liver-spotted hands were covered in four massive gold rings that clicked against his crystal brandy glass every time he moved.

Beside his chair lay a massive German Shepherd.

The shepherd was three years old, long-bodied, deep-chested, with a scarred muzzle and a yellow leather harness studded with heavy iron spikes. The dog was panting heavily, its tongue hanging out over four rows of sharp white teeth, its dark eyes darting nervously around the crowded room.

Matteo Moretti sat at the opposite end of the table.

He had removed his coat. His white shirt was open at the collar, his dark grey vest unbuttoned at the bottom notch. He held a long, unlit cigar between two fingers, his face completely motionless as Saleri spoke.

“...brought him from Germany myself,” Saleri was saying, his voice like dry leaves rattling in a tin pipe. “Trained by the state police in Munich. Cost me fourteen thousand dollars in gold. He’s killed three men in my yard in Queens, Matteo. Real security. Not like these domestic pets you young guys keep for show.”

Matteo did not answer. He turned his head toward the heavy oak doors at the back of the room.

The double doors opened.

Clara Hayes stepped into the dining room.

She wore her dark gray wool skirt, her black wool sweater, and her brown mended boots. She held no whip, no iron restraint bar, and no leather lead. In her right hand, she held a simple five-foot length of soft white hemp rope that ended in a wooden toggle.

Beside her walked Bruno.

The Cane Corso moved into the room with a slow, heavy rhythm that had no noise in it. His black paws hit the thick oriental carpet without making a sound. He did not pant. He did not dart his eyes toward the nine men sitting around the table.

He walked until his front paws touched the edge of Matteo’s chair, then sat down heavily on his left hip, his broad head rising until his jaw rested directly on Matteo’s knee.

The dining room went dead silent.

The eight men from New York stared. The German Shepherd under Saleri’s chair stood up instantly, its black fur standing on end along its spine, a high-pitched, furious bark ripping through its throat.

ARF! ARF! ARF!

The shepherd strained against its studded harness, its claws tearing small loops out of the expensive Persian rug as it tried to reach Bruno.

Bruno did not stand up.

He did not growl. He did not turn his head toward the barking Shepherd.

He slowly turned his yellow eyes up to look at Matteo’s face, resting his heavy chin even firmer against his master’s thigh, as if the screaming German dog across the room were no more interesting than a blowfly buzzing against a window pane.

Don Saleri stopped speaking. His jaw hung open a fraction of an inch, his thin gold rings frozen against his brandy glass.

He looked at the shepherd struggling wildly against its handler’s grip, then looked across thirty feet of mahogany at the massive black monster sitting quietly under Matteo Moretti’s hand.

Matteo reached down.

His long, pale fingers sank into the dense, black velvet fur behind Bruno’s ears, scratching the soft spot near the base of his skull that Clara had shown him three weeks ago.

Bruno let out a single, long, deep sigh of pure satisfaction, his eyes half-closing under his master’s touch.

Matteo looked up the long table at Don Saleri.

“Fourteen thousand dollars,” Matteo said softly. His voice carried across the silent room like a cold needle through silk. “You were cheated, Vincent.”

Saleri’s face turned the color of an old turnip.

He looked at his own dog, which was now whining frantically as its handler pulled it back toward the wall, then looked at Clara Hayes standing quietly behind Matteo’s chair with her simple piece of white rope.

“Who is the girl?” Saleri rasped, pointing a spotted finger at Clara.

Matteo did not remove his hand from Bruno’s neck.

“She is the head of my estate security,” Matteo said flatly.

Two of the younger bosses from Ohio let out quick, smothered laughs before catching themselves under Saleri’s glare.