I Bathed the Mafia Boss’s Killer Pit Bull in a Basement Sink and Never Expected Him to Tell Me I Was His

The Baltimore harbor at dusk was a place of iron, rust, and oil-slicked water.

Pier 42 was flanked by towering rows of rusted shipping containers that cast long, ominous shadows across the wet concrete. A cold drizzle was falling, turning the air thick with fog.

Two black Suburbans pulled up to the entrance of Warehouse 9. Dante stepped out of the lead vehicle, wearing a long black leather trench coat that swept around his boots like a shadow.

I stepped out from the passenger side, wearing a black raincoat, dark cargo pants, and my sturdy work boots. Beside me, Titan hopped out gracefully, his black leather harness fitted tightly around his chest, a long tactical lead resting loosely in my right hand. He stayed perfectly at my heel, his head held high, his good ear swiveling to catch the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the wooden pylons.

Four of Dante’s armed men, including Marco, fell in formation behind us, their hands buried deep in their coat pockets, clearly holding suppressed firearms.

"Remember," I whispered to Titan, making a subtle hand signal—two fingers resting against my thigh. Stay close.

Titan gave a tiny huff of understanding, his dark eyes focused forward.

We walked through the rusted double doors of the warehouse.

Inside, the space was lit by flickering yellow industrial lamps suspended from high steel rafters. Sitting on a wooden crate in the center of the floor was Dominic Moretti—a fat, oily man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair and a expensive cashmere coat that looked ridiculous in the grime of the harbor.

Surrounding him were twelve armed men. Among them was Jimmy Moretti—a broad-shouldered brute with a heavily bandaged right forearm held in a black sling, his face twisted in an ugly sneer.

"Caruso," Dominic spoke first, his voice gravelly from years of cheap cigars. "You actually came. And you brought your rabid hound."

Dante didn't stop until he was standing ten feet from Dominic, his stance relaxed, his hands resting casually inside the pockets of his leather trench coat. I stood half a step behind his left shoulder, holding Titan’s lead with zero tension.

"I brought my dog, Dominic," Dante said smoothly, his voice echoing off the high tin ceiling. "Because you claimed he was an uncontrollable threat to the harbor peace."

Jimmy Moretti took a furious step forward, pointing a bandaged finger at Titan. "That beast jumped me out of nowhere! He took a chunk out of my arm! Look at him—he’s a pit bull raised in the blood rings! He ought to be shot right here on this floor!"

Titan didn't bark. He didn't growl. He simply sat down beside my left boot, tilting his head slightly to watch Jimmy with cool, intelligent detachment.

I stepped forward slightly, bringing myself into the light.

"He didn't jump you out of nowhere, Mr. Moretti," I said, my voice cutting through the damp silence of the warehouse like a sharp blade.

Dominic Moretti raised an eyebrow, looking past Dante at me. "Who the hell is this? Since when does Dante Caruso bring his laundry girls to a commission meeting?"

Dante’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Watch your tongue, Dominic. She is my head of veterinary operations. And she has the floor."

I didn't let Dominic’s insult rattle me. I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a clear plastic bag containing a small, blood-stained pocket knife, and held it up.

"I recovered this knife from Titan’s shoulder wound last night," I stated clearly. "The blade length matches a standard three-inch tactical switchblade. The blood on the hilt belongs to Titan, but the skin cells on the handle belong to your lieutenant, Jimmy."

Jimmy’s face drained of color. "That’s a lie!"

"It’s not a lie," I continued, stepping right up to Dante’s side. "Titan has severe hearing damage in his left ear from past abuse. When Jimmy approached crate four, he tried to force the lock with this knife. Titan was guarding the cargo. When Titan barked a warning, Jimmy panicked and slashed the dog’s shoulder. Titan bit him in self-defense to disarm him."

I turned my eyes directly to Dominic. "Your man didn't get attacked by a rabid dog, Mr. Moretti. Your man was caught trying to steal three million dollars worth of medical cargo from a neutral shipment, and he got bested by an animal that had more discipline than he did."

The warehouse fell into a deadly silence. Dante’s men shifted slightly, their eyes locked on Dominic’s crew.

Dominic turned a furious glare toward Jimmy. "Is this true?"

"She’s making it up!" Jimmy yelled, reaching toward his belt with his good left hand. "She’s just Caruso’s whore trying to protect his mutt!"

Before Jimmy’s hand could even reach his jacket, a sound like a thunderclap shattered the air.

Dante hadn't even looked like he was moving, but suddenly a sleek black custom Sig Sauer was in his right hand, aimed dead center at Jimmy’s forehead.

"Say another word about her," Dante whispered, his voice so quiet, so cold, that it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, "and I will blow your head off your shoulders before your body hits the concrete."

Jimmy froze, his breath hitching, his hand hovering two inches from his holster.

Dominic Moretti stood up slowly from his crate, holding his hands out in a placating gesture, though his eyes were filled with venom. "Easy, Caruso. Easy. We’re all businessmen here."

"Businessmen respect property and truth, Dominic," Dante said, keeping the gun leveled at Jimmy’s forehead without a single tremor in his arm. "Your man lied to you. He tried to steal from me, he injured my dog, and he just insulted the woman who holds my complete trust."

Dante slowly lowered the gun, though he didn't pocket it. He looked Dominic dead in the eye.

"The medical crate leaves Pier 42 tonight," Dante declared. "Jimmy will pay fifty thousand dollars to cover the medical suite expenses for Titan’s recovery. And if I see Jimmy within five miles of the harbor again, he dies."

Dominic looked at Jimmy, then at Dante, and finally at Titan, who was sitting perfectly still by my side, perfectly obedient, completely controlled.

"Fifty thousand," Dominic grunted bitterly. "And Jimmy stays in South Baltimore. We have a deal."

"Get out of my warehouse," Dante said.

Dominic turned and walked toward the back exit, his men scrambling after him like beaten dogs. Jimmy cast one last, terrified, hateful glance back at Dante and me before disappearing into the fog.

When the heavy iron doors slammed shut, the tension in the room snapped like a stretched rubber band.

Marco let out a long breath. "Mother of God, Dante... that could have been a bloodbath."

Dante didn't look at Marco. He pocketed his firearm, turned around, and looked at me.

His amber eyes were blazing with something dark, wild, and incredibly intense. He stepped up to me, grabbing both of my wrists, his fingers wrapping around them firmly.

"You called his lie in front of twelve armed men," Dante said, his voice raw, his chest heaving slightly. "You didn't hesitate."

"I told you," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs as I looked up into his fierce face. "I don't like people who hurt animals. And I don't like liars."

Dante let out a low growl, suddenly pulling me against his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist with a crushing force that lifted my boots two inches off the wet floor. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.

"You're insane, Rosalie Whitaker," he murmured against my skin, his breath hot against my collarbone. "Completely, wonderfully insane."

I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, holding onto him tight as the ocean rain drummed against the roof above us.