The Mafia boss promised her $100,000 if she could save his dog, but when she succeeded, he gave his men an order that made her blood run cold.

The next morning, the mood in the penthouse shifted from desperate to menacing. Willa was in the kitchen, preparing a light broth for Brutus, when she heard the voices in the living room. They were low, guttural, and dripping with urgency.

"She’s seen too much, boss," a voice said—a thick, gravelly tone that made Willa’s skin crawl. "We can't have a witness to the state of the dog, let alone the security protocols of the floor."

Willa froze, her hand hovering over the broth. She recognized that voice. It was the man who had driven the lead car, the one who had ushered her into the elevator.

"She has an affinity for the animal," Kensington’s voice replied, cold and unreadable. "That is useful for now."

"And when the animal is healthy? When she starts asking about where the money comes from? Or why the police don't come near this building?"

"Then we handle it," Kensington said.

Willa’s blood ran cold. She leaned against the marble counter, fighting the urge to run. She was sixty floors up. There were no fire escapes. There were no neighbors to call. She looked at Brutus, who was now sitting up, watching her with a strange, watchful intelligence.

He knew. The dog knew what was happening.

She realized then that the $100,000 wasn't a reward for saving a pet; it was a down payment on a secret. And secrets, in Kensington’s world, were paid for in blood.

"Willa?"

She spun around. Kensington stood at the kitchen entrance, his face an impenetrable mask. He wasn't holding a weapon, but the atmosphere of the room had changed. It was no longer a negotiation.

"Brutus is stable," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I’m done here."

"Are you?" Kensington stepped inside, closing the distance between them. "You think you can just walk away from this, Willa? You think you can go back to that mop and that flickering bulb?"

"I’d rather live in the dark than in a cage," she retorted.

Kensington reached out, his hand catching her chin. His touch wasn't violent—it was possessive, a claim. "You don't understand. I haven't just bought your service. I’ve bought your protection. You stay here, with him. You are now the only person in this city I trust to keep his heart beating."