“You Can Have My Dog... Just Please Save My Mommy,” the Little Girl Told the Mafia Boss—He Couldn't Move After Hearing the Rest Spotlight8

""Three days ago."" Elena's voice steadied. She'd passed through the worst of the crying, reached the other side where only facts remained. ""The men with the red bandanas. They said my daddy owed them money before he died. And now Mommy has to work for them until it's paid back.""

Rossetti's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The vultures. He knew them. Low-level predators who preyed on the vulnerable, inventing debts and collecting in flesh. They stayed off his radar because they weren't worth the bullets. Small-time. Disposable. The kind of vermin that multiplied when ignored.

""But she said they're lying,"" Elena continued. ""She said they're making her do bad things and she can't stop them."" Her voice cracked, but she forced herself forward. ""She has until tomorrow night. Then they said she's not useful anymore.""

She reached out and let her fingers brush against Bruno's fur one last time. A goodbye she hadn't finished saying.

""So please. Take my best friend and bring my mom home.""

Rossetti reached across the table and picked up the puppy. It weighed nothing — less than his pistol, less than the knife strapped to his ankle. The animal licked his thumb once, then settled against his chest like it belonged there, like it had found exactly where it was meant to be.

""The men with red bandanas,"" Rossetti said quietly. Dangerously. ""The vultures.""

Elena nodded.

Rossetti smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. ""Keep your dog, bambina. You're going to need him.""

He set the puppy back on the table but kept one hand resting on its head, fingers absently scratching behind its ears. A gesture of comfort that surprised even himself.

""Your mother's name. What is it?""

""Sarah. Sarah O'Shea.""

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Rossetti's hand stopped moving. His entire body went rigid, as if someone had injected concrete into his veins. Around the table, his men exchanged glances, reading the shift in their boss the way sailors read storm clouds on the horizon.