Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Moretti estate, but inside the grand dining room, the atmosphere had dropped below freezing.

“Get that filthy animal out of here!”

Vanessa Bellini’s voice was like broken glass scraping over marble. She stood beside Luca Moretti in a scarlet designer gown that cost more than my entire family earned in a year. Her painted lips were curled in utter revulsion as her manicured hand reached out, trying to physically shove me backward toward the swinging pantry doors.

I didn’t budge. My arms were shaking violently under the seventy-pound deadweight of Bruno. The old German shepherd’s wet, matted fur soaked straight through my starched maid’s apron, chilling my chest. He was trembling so hard I could feel his heartbeat hammering against my ribs, irregular and weak.

“You stupid little maid!” Vanessa hissed, glaring at the twenty-six elite guests sitting along the banquet table. Chicago’s wealthiest power brokers, judges, and underworld capos were frozen with forks halfway to their mouths. “I told you to dispose of him before the first course! Put that carcass down and get out of my house. You’re fired!”

*“Emma.”*

The voice didn’t shout. It didn’t need to.

It was a low, velvet growl that halted every breath in the room.

Luca Moretti rose from the head of the table. The scrape of his high-backed mahogany chair against the polished stone sounded like a gunshot. His crystal champagne glass slipped from his fingers, shattering across the white linen tablecloth, spilling vintage Dom Pérignon into a pool of pale gold. He didn’t even look down at the mess.

His dark, lethal eyes—eyes that made city councilmen sweat and rival bosses flee the state—were fixed entirely on the gray-muzzled creature in my arms.

“Where did you find my dog?” Luca whispered.

My throat felt full of dry sand. “In the old maintenance garage, Mr. Moretti. Behind the padlocked boiler room.”

Vanessa’s face drained of color. “Luca, darling, don’t listen to her! The girl is completely unhinged—”

“Silence,” Luca murmured, never taking his eyes off me.

He stepped away from the table. His movements were slow, deliberate, like a predator stalking through tall grass. Luca Moretti was thirty-two, broad-shouldered, ruthless, and feared across the entire Midwest. Men knelt before him begging for their lives.

Yet, right there, under the blazing chandeliers, in front of Chicago’s highest society, the boss of the Moretti syndicate dropped down onto both knees on the wet, muddy floor.

“Bruno?” he called softly.

At the sound of his true master’s voice, the old shepherd let out a ragged, wheezing whimper. He struggled out of my arms, his weak back legs sliding against the slick marble. He would have collapsed, but Luca caught him in his arms.

Luca pulled the dirty, soaking-wet animal against his tailored silk suit, burying his face directly into the dog’s neck. For ten long, excruciating seconds, nobody breathed. Luca’s broad shoulders rose and fell. When he finally looked up, his jaw was set like iron.

“You told me he died while I was in New York,” Luca said, his voice deadly calm as he stared at his fiancée. “You told me he suffered a stroke and you had him cremated.”

“I—I thought he had!” Vanessa stammered, smoothing her red dress with trembling fingers. “The veterinarian said his organs were failing! I wanted to spare you the pain, Luca!”

“Which veterinarian?” Luca asked.

“Dr. Henderson!” she blurted out.

“Dr. Henderson died three months ago, Vanessa,” Luca said coldly. He turned to me. “Emma. Did you see any medical equipment in that garage?”

“No, sir,” I said, lifting my chin despite the terror knotting my stomach. “His water bowl was bone dry. He’d been licking moisture off the concrete wall. And someone took off his collar.”

I pulled the cracked leather band from my apron pocket and handed it to Luca. He took it, his fingers tracing the frayed leather where a brass nameplate had been violently pried off.

“His tag is gone,” Luca muttered. His eyes darkened with something far more dangerous than anger: realization.

Before Vanessa could spin another lie, the double doors at the far end of the hallway swung open. Marco, Luca’s head of security, stepped in. His face was grim.

“Boss,” Marco said, ignoring the stunned dinner guests. “There’s an unmarked van at the service gate. The driver claims Mrs. Bellini paid him five thousand dollars in cash to collect a load from the maintenance garage tonight.”

Luca slowly stood back up, keeping one hand resting on Bruno’s head. “What load?”

Marco swallowed hard, darting a nervous glance toward Vanessa. “He said he was paid to transport two animals to an incinerator across state lines. And he wants to know if he’s still supposed to pick up the second one.”

Luca’s gaze snapped back to Vanessa like a whip. “What second animal?”

Vanessa dropped her champagne glass. It shattered at her feet, splashing dark red wine across her pristine silver heels.