Chapter 2 - The Raw Instinct
She didn't use force. Against a hundred and twenty pounds of adrenaline-crazed canine muscle, muscle meant nothing. Mave had spent three years volunteering at an open-intake animal shelter in the rough part of the city before her mother’s illness consumed every free hour of her life. She knew what raw, blind animal terror looked like, and she knew that hitting a fighting breed only fed its frantic drive.
Instead of lunging at the dog, Mave dropped low to the floor, instantly lowering her center of gravity to avoid appearing as an overhead threat. She doused the thick, wet linen towel with the harsh, pungent grain alcohol. Without hesitation, she wrapped the soaked cloth directly over Brutus’s snout and nose, cutting off his airway while suffocating his senses with the overpowering fumes.
At the same time, her left hand moved with practiced, precise speed. She didn't grab the thick studded collar; she slipped two fingers into the hollow space right behind the dog's jawline, applying intense pressure to the nerve bundle behind his ears.
It was an old shelter trick, executed with cold, unflinching precision.
Brutus gasped for air. The sudden sensory shock of the alcohol fumes combined with the choking cut of oxygen forced his jaws to unlatch involuntarily.
The moment his teeth released Toby’s heavy denim jacket, Mave didn't pull back. She grabbed the nape of Brutus's neck, twisted the loose skin firmly to maintain leverage, and pinned the dog’s heavy head flat against the hardwood floor.
"Toby, crawl! Now!" she commanded, her voice terrifyingly steady.
The nineteen-year-old busboy didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, sobbing, blood dripping from torn fabric where the dog's teeth had grazed his skin, slipping into the safe perimeter of the kitchen doors.
Brutus thrashed beneath Mave’s weight. The dog was a storm of muscle, his powerful hind legs kicking out, sharp claws gouging deep grooves into the expensive oak floorboards. But Mave held the head pinned, her knees locked against his shoulders, using every ounce of her body weight to keep his lethal jaws pointed away from her throat.
"Stay down, you big idiot," she growled under her breath, her eyes locked onto the dog's rolling, frantic eyes. She began to speak in a low, rhythmic, monotone chant—the exact calm cadence she used when handling abused pit bulls brought into the shelter off the street. "Easy. Easy. Good boy. No more noise. Easy."
The entire back room of the Copper Anchor was frozen in absolute, suspended shock.
Declan Gallagher stood over her, his massive hands still hovering in the air, his chest heaving under his tailored suit jacket. His three enforcers were motionless, guns still half-drawn, staring at a five-foot-five waitress in a stained black apron kneeling over a beast that had almost put two men in the hospital.
The rival crew near the entrance looked equally stunned, their arrogant smirks completely wiped from their faces.
"Don't shoot," Mave snapped without looking up at the armed men. "If somebody fires a gun right now, the muzzle flash will set him off again, and I won't be able to hold him."
Gallagher took a slow, deliberate step forward. The gravelly edge in his voice was thick with shock. "How... where did you learn to do that?"
"Shelter work," Mave grunted, her wrists aching under the strain of Brutus’s powerful neck muscles. "He wasn't attacking out of malice. He was overstimulated. The crash broke his brain. Now get his leash before my grip slips, or he's going to bite my face off."
Gallagher didn't hesitate. He knelt beside her, his large, calloused hands taking over the grip on the dog's neck with practiced ease. He clipped a heavy-duty backup lead from his coat pocket directly onto the dog's collar, securing the steel clasp.
As Gallagher took total physical control of the animal, Mave slowly eased her weight off Brutus, stepping backward on her knees, then pushing herself up to her feet.
Her hands were shaking. Now that the adrenaline surge was beginning to recede, her legs felt like water. She wiped her damp, alcohol-stained hands on her apron, her breath coming in ragged hitches.
Brutus, surprisingly, didn't lunge at her. The suffocating scent of alcohol and the firm, unyielding pressure she had exerted seemed to have reset his brain. The dog let out a long, heavy huff, his ears drooping back against his blocky head. He looked up at Mave, his tail giving a single, cautious, low wag against the floorboards.
"You've got guts, girl," the rival boss with the ponytail sneered from the doorway, breaking the silence as he adjusted his jacket. "Too bad you wasted them saving Gallagher's mutt."
Gallagher didn't look at the rival. He stood up slowly, holding Brutus firmly at his side, his dirty-ice eyes fixed entirely on Mave.
"What's your name?" Gallagher asked.
"Mave," she said, adjusting her apron, trying desperately to keep her hands from trembling.
"Mave," Gallagher repeated, testing the weight of the name on his tongue. He looked down at the broken plates, the spilled scotch, and then back at her pale, determined face. "You saved my dog. And you kept my men from making a mess tonight."
"I saved Toby," Mave corrected flatly, stepping over a broken shard of glass. "I don't care about your business, Mr. Gallagher. I care about a nineteen-year-old busboy not getting his throat torn out on my shift."
Arthur, the sweating manager, finally crept out from behind the bar, looking terrified. "Mave! Are you insane?! Mr. Gallagher, I am so sorry—she shouldn't have stepped in like that—"
"Shut up, Arthur," Gallagher said coldly without turning his head.
The mob boss reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a thick leather wallet, and extracted a heavy stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He held it out to Mave.
"For your hands," Gallagher said. "And for keeping your head."
Mave looked at the money. It was easily three thousand dollars—enough to cover two months of rent and buy her mother's heart medication for the season. Every survival instinct in her brain screamed at her to take it.
She looked up into Gallagher's pale gray eyes, seeing the quiet, absolute authority that governed his world.
May you like
"I don't take hazard pay from customers," Mave said, keeping her chin up. "Put it on the tip line when you pay for the broken table."
She turned her back on the deadliest man in the city, walked through the kitchen doors, and collapsed against the stainless steel prep counter, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
