A Veterinarian Rescued the Mafia Boss’s Blind Cane Corso, but the Dog Had Been Used to Turn Her Into a Murder Weapon

The next three days inside the estate were an agonizing battle of patience and science.

Maeve practically lived in the makeshift medical suite, sleeping on a small leather sofa beside Argos’s recovery pen. She worked tirelessly, changing the chemical burn dressings, administering nerve-soothing IV drips, and carefully cleaning the damaged tissue around the dog's blind eyes.

Dante visited every night at midnight. He would sit in silence on the steel stool beside the exam table, pouring two glasses of scotch—offering one to Maeve, who eventually accepted—and watching the dog sleep.

"He trusts you," Dante remarked softly on the third night, watching as Maeve gently massaged Argos’s scarred shoulders. "He hasn't growled at you once since you brought him here."

"Dogs don't hold grudges against the people who heal them," Maeve said, wiping her hands on a towel. She looked at Dante, noticing the exhaustion lingering beneath his eyes. "He remembers your voice, Dante. But when you speak, his heart rate spikes. Look at the monitor."

Dante looked at the digital display. The heart rate monitor jumped from 65 to 90 beats per minute whenever Dante spoke near the dog.

"Is it fear?" Dante asked, a rare trace of pain slipping into his voice.

"It’s confusion," Maeve explained, pulling up a series of neurological scans on her laptop. "Look at these brain wave patterns. Whoever held him used a sound frequency—likely an ultrasonic whistle combined with high-voltage shock collars. They paired the sound of your voice with extreme pain. They wanted him to associate the sound of your presence with a fight-or-flight rage response."

Dante gripped the edge of the metal table, his knuckles turning white. "Cruel bastards. They used his love for me against him."

"We can undo it," Maeve said firmly, placing her hand over his. Dante looked down at her fingers, then up into her green eyes. The intensity of his gaze made her breath hitch. "It’s called counter-conditioning. We rebind your voice to safety, food, and affection. But it takes time. And absolute calm."

"Time is something we are running out of," Dante said quietly. "Julian has called a council meeting of the five major families for this Friday at the Blackwood Club. He intends to declare me unfit to rule, claiming I’m hiding away in grief over a dead dog. If I don't show up, I lose control of the family forever."