The Mafia Boss Was Cornered In An Alley—A Stray Dog And Little Girl Saved Him

The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the pilot lights hissing under the sauté stations.

Dylan’s hands moved over the mastiff’s massive frame with expert, practiced care, checking for fractures, bleeding, and the pale, raw line around his thick neck where a heavy tracking collar had recently been ripped away with brute force.

"Who did this?"

The question wasn't directed at anyone in particular. It hung in the air like a loaded gun.

Henderson swallowed hard, his throat dry as bone. "Mr... Mr. Burroughs, sir, we don't know anything about it! The animal just wandered in from the alley—"

Dylan turned his head slowly. His stormy gray-blue eyes locked onto the sous chef.

"You think I don't know the perimeter of this block?" Dylan’s voice was dangerously soft, devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying. "You think a dog the size of a grown man wanders into a locked service alley with his throat torn open by a tracker rip, dragging himself through four blocks of downtown traffic, and nobody saw a damn thing?"

"Sir—"

"Shut your mouth," Dylan said simply.

Henderson snapped his jaw shut so fast his teeth clicked.

Dylan shifted his attention back down. He noticed, for the first time, the girl kneeling beside his dog. He noticed the awkward angle of her shoulder, the pale, drawn look on her face, and the dark bruise forming along her jawline where she had hit the floor.

More importantly, he noticed where her hands were.

Even while injured, even while fighting for her own breath after taking a direct blow to the ribs, Molly’s fingers were still gently buried in Max’s fur, offering whatever warmth she had left to give.

"What's your name?" Dylan asked, his voice softening just a fraction as he looked at her.

"Molly," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"Molly," Dylan repeated, tasting the name. "Did you touch him?"

"I... I carried him in from the door," Molly managed to say, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through her side. "He was trying to get inside. I didn't want him to die in the alley."

Dylan looked down at her torn apron, the cheap cotton stained with kitchen grease and now mixed with the dog's blood. Then he looked at the heavy, distinctive red smear of lipstick residue and leather imprint on the floorboards a few feet away—the precise shape of a stiletto heel.

"Who did that to you?" Dylan asked.

Before Molly could answer, the swing doors from the east dining room pushed open again.

This time, it was Libby Kemp.

She walked into the kitchen with a bright, porcelain smile plastered across her face, holding a flute of champagne in one hand, her eyes sparkling with annoyance.

"Dylan, darling, what on earth are you doing?" Libby called out, her voice dripping with playful exasperation as she stepped past the pastry station. "The entire table is waiting for the toast, and you disappear into the kitchens to look at—"

She stopped dead.

Her smile didn't fade all at once; it cracked slowly, like dry porcelain under a hammer.

Her eyes moved from Dylan kneeling on the filthy floor, to the massive, bleeding mastiff resting his head in a pool of water, and finally, to Molly Lane, who was clutching the dog’s neck just inches away from Dylan’s knee.

Color drained completely from Libby’s face. The champagne flute in her hand tilted dangerously, a few drops of golden liquid spilling over the rim and hitting the floor with a sharp splash.

"Dylan," Libby whispered, her voice losing its polished edge, replaced by a sudden, frantic tremor. "What is... what is this disgusting animal doing in here? Get security to drag that thing out into the street. It's ruining our night."

Dylan didn't stand up.

He stayed kneeling on the floor, one hand resting protectively over Max’s flank, his other hand slowly resting on his knee as he turned his head to look back at his fiancée.