Chapter 3 - The Contract and the Healing
I lifted my chin even though my heart was hammering so hard I could feel it behind my eyes. Watch me.
One of the guards looked at me like I had signed my own death certificate. The housekeeper looked like she wanted to cross herself. And to my shock, the corner of Enzo’s mouth twitched.
You misunderstand your position, he said. You have become extremely valuable. And extremely vulnerable. Stay here. Help me understand the dog. Help me keep him stable. I’ll pay you more in a month than you make in a year.
I should have said no. I should have grabbed Sarabus by the collar and tested how many steps I could take before somebody tackled me. I should have cared that the man across from me had the kind of money that erased people. Instead I heard myself say, One hundred thousand a month. No one interferes with his care. No hitting him. No isolation. No using him as a weapon. And I get a real room if I’m being held hostage.
The two guards looked personally offended. The housekeeper actually inhaled. Enzo looked me over slowly, like he was recalculating what kind of woman negotiated with a loaded gun still in the room. Then he held out his hand. One week, he said. Prove that he is yours. Prove that you are useful. After that, we renegotiate.
I stood carefully, one hand still in the dog’s fur. Then I shook the hand of the most dangerous man I had ever met. His grip was warm. Firm. Steady. That annoyed me for reasons I did not want to examine.
Deal, I said. But if anyone hurts him again, I’ll stop being polite. His eyes flicked to my mouth. Good. I’m beginning to suspect polite is overrated.
That was how I moved into a penthouse above the city with my stolen dog and a mafia boss who looked at me like I was either a miracle or a tactical problem. The room they gave me was bigger than my entire apartment. The bathroom floor was heated. The closet could have housed a family of four. Sarabus paced the perimeter twice, sniffed every surface, then jumped on the bed and laid his heavy head on my stomach like he already knew where home was supposed to be.
I cried into the pillows after the staff left. Not because I was scared. I was. But fear was simple. This wasn’t. This was the kind of pain that comes when something you buried alive claws its way back up.
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By morning, I had learned three things. First, the house ran on silence. Second, everybody was terrified of Cerberus. Third, Enzo Dante had no idea how to live with anything he couldn’t dominate. The dog’s feeding schedule was rigid. His handlers used clipped commands and body tension that made him more volatile every hour. No one made eye contact with him. No one touched him unless necessary. He wasn’t treated like an animal. He was treated like a landmine.
On my second day, I found Enzo in the kitchen watching me portion raw chicken, sweet potato, and supplements into metal bowls. You’re doing it wrong, he said. Good evening to you too, I said. His jaw tightened. The portions are too generous. He becomes unpredictable when overfed. He becomes unpredictable when everyone around him behaves like he’s a bomb, I said. Also, he’s not overfed. He’s under-loved.
