The Mafia Boss Said, “You’re Mine,” After I Bathed His Killer Pit Bull—But the Dog Chose Me First...

The main house of the Castellano estate was a labyrinth of dark mahogany paneling, vaulted ceilings, and Persian rugs so thick they swallowed the sound of footsteps.

By nine in the morning, I had walked Titan through the service entrance and straight up to the second-floor library. Dante had instructed me to keep the dog near his study during his morning meetings, a directive that had drawn open scowls from the security detail.

As I guided Titan past the grand staircase, heavy footsteps echoed down the marble hall.

“What is that filthy brute doing in the house?”

I stopped and turned. Coming down the stairs was a man in his late thirties, wearing an expensive tailored suit in a shade of blue that was far too bright for the dreary morning. He had Dante’s dark hair, but his eyes were smaller, set too close together, and flushed with the puffy red lines of a man who drank heavily before noon.

This was Marco Castellano—Dante’s younger cousin and the head of the family’s shipping operations at the docks.

Titan immediately shifted his weight, putting his body between Marco and me. His upper lip twitched, exposing the long, white curve of his right canine. A low, sub-audible hum started in his chest.

“He’s on a leash, Mr. Castellano,” I said neutrally, keeping my grip firm on the leather lead.

Marco stopped three steps up, his hand hovering near his belt. His eyes darted from Titan to me, filled with a mixture of intense disgust and poorly concealed anxiety.

“Dante’s gone soft,” Marco spat, stepping down the remaining stairs, though he kept a wide five-foot berth between himself and the dog. “Keeping a mad animal that should have been shot months ago. And hiring staff off the street. Who the hell are you?”

“Rosalind. I’m handling Titan’s medical recovery.”

“You’re a maid,” Marco sneered, leaning closer. The smell of stale bourbon and expensive cologne washed over me. “Don't get grand ideas, girl. A dog like that doesn't recover. He’s damaged goods. Just like everything else my cousin tries to keep alive out of sentiment.”

“He isn't damaged,” I replied, my voice dropping an octave, steady and flat. “He was mistreated. There’s a difference.”

Marco’s eyes flicked over my shoulder toward the third-floor landing. A subtle, fleeting shadow of tension crossed his jaw—the exact same angle of vision I had seen from the gatehouse earlier that morning.

“Watch your tongue,” Marco warned, stepping closer to me. “In this house, people who talk too much end up—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Titan lunged.

He didn't bark. He didn't waste breath on a growl. He threw his full weight forward, the leather leash snapping taut in my hands. His jaws snapped shut six inches from Marco’s thigh with a loud, sickening crack of bone-crushing force.

Marco screamed, stumbling backward onto the marble stairs, his face instantly turning the color of chalk. He scrambled up three steps on his hands and knees, his polished leather shoes slipping wildly against the stone.

“Titan, halt!” I barked, using the German operational command I had learned during my shelter days.

Titan stopped instantly, his muscles quivering, his eyes locked onto Marco’s throat. He didn't retreat, but he held his ground, a rigid statue of black muscle and white scars.

The heavy double doors of the library slammed open.

Dante stepped into the hallway. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark ink tracing up his wrists. In his right hand, he held a dark leather folder.

“What is happening here?” Dante’s voice cut through the corridor like a blade.

“That damn dog tried to take my leg off!” Marco shouted from the stairs, his voice cracking as he pulled himself up by the mahogany banister. “He’s out of control, Dante! He’s going to tear someone’s throat out in the middle of the foyer! Get rid of him!”

Dante didn't look at Marco. He looked at Titan, who was standing perfectly still beside my knee. Then he looked at me.

“Did he attack without cause, Rosalind?” Dante asked smoothly.

“Mr. Marco Castellano stepped into his threat radius while raising his voice and making rapid hand movements,” I answered clearly. “Titan responded to perceived aggressive intent. He obeyed my halt command instantly.”

Marco’s face turned from pale to purple. “She’s lying! She set the dog on me!”

Dante walked slowly across the marble floor until he was standing between Marco and the dog. He looked up at his cousin with an expression of quiet, terrifying boredom.

“Rosalind doesn't lie, Marco,” Dante said softly. “She lacks the training for it. You, on the other hand, have been lying to me about the loss of three container shipments out of Port Newark for six weeks.”

Marco swallowed hard, his throat working against his high collar. “That... that was an operational delay, Dante. The federal inspectors—”

“The federal inspectors were paid off three days before the ships even docked,” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Go back to your office, Marco. And do not come near the east wing again today.”

Marco glared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred, then turned and hurried up the stairs toward the third floor, his heavy leather soles slapping against the marble.

Dante watched him leave until the sound of his footsteps faded. Then he turned to me.

“He was upstairs this morning,” I said quietly, keeping my voice low so the guards down the hall couldn't hear.

Dante’s gray eyes fixed on mine. “What did you say?”

“At six fifteen AM. Someone threw a bowl of raw meat laced with antifreeze onto my porch,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I threw it in the harbor. When I looked up, someone was standing behind the curtain of the third-floor corner window.”

Dante’s entire body went unnaturally still. The lazy, relaxed air he projected vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp lethal concentration.

“The third-floor corner window,” Dante repeated. “That is the study of my uncle, VIPER Castellano.”

“Whoever it was,” I said, “they knew Titan’s schedule. They knew he was staying with me. And they tried to kill him while I was sleeping.”

Dante reached out. For a second, I thought he was going to touch my arm, but his hand stopped mid-air, hovering inches from my wrist before he dropped it to his side.

“You didn't eat the bread Nonna brought you this morning, did you?” he asked suddenly.

“I drank the coffee. Nonna poured it herself.”

“Good,” Dante muttered. He looked down at Titan, who was leaning his head against my thigh, entirely relaxed now that Marco was gone. “You have sharp eyes, Rosalind.”