The Corso Restorante glittered like a jewel box built on blood.

The private dining room behind Corso’s kitchen smelled of polished mahogany, expensive cigars, and fresh disinfectant.

Naomi sat on a leather banquette, her hands folded tightly in her lap to mask the tremors running through her arms. Titan lay flat across her feet, his heavy head anchored over her ankles like a anchor. He refused to move. Every time a bodyguard stepped too close to the doorway, Titan’s ears pricked, but a soft tap from Naomi’s fingers against his flank kept the dog completely grounded.

Belvin stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass panel overlooking the alleyway. He had poured himself a fingers-width of Macallan, the ice clinking softly against the heavy crystal.

"His name is Titan," Belvin said without turning around. "Three years ago, an rival outfit in Brooklyn kept him in a concrete pit with four other pitbulls. They didn't feed them for six days before forcing them to fight. I killed the men running that ring. I took the dog."

Naomi swallowed the knot in her throat. "He carried the trauma into every room he entered. He sees threat in every sudden movement because in that pit, a sudden movement meant death."

Belvin turned slowly. His bespoke navy suit was immaculate, devoid of a single speck of dust or wine, yet he carried an aura that made the air feel thin. "The animal doctors I hired told me he was unhandlable. They recommended lethal injection. They said a dog that size with that level of neurological damage was a bomb waiting to go off."

"They were reading textbook symptoms instead of looking at the animal," Naomi replied, her voice steadying. "Aggression is a symptom of fear, Mr. Santoro. You gave him safety, but you didn't give him an exit cue for his adrenaline. When that glass broke, his brain reverted to the pit."

Belvin stepped closer, stopping just past the edge of the mahogany table. "You're a waitress."

"I was a senior student at Cornell’s College of Veterinary Medicine," she corrected gently. "I had three months left before my final clinical rotation."

"Why did you quit?"

"My sister got sick," Naomi said, refusing to look away from his piercing stare. "Diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma. Advanced brain cancer. Clinical trials aren't covered by standard insurance. I needed money immediately, not a degree in two years."

Belvin took a slow sip of his drink. He didn't offer sympathy; men like Belvin Santoro didn't deal in useless emotions. He dealt in transactions.

"Castellano was wearing a wire," Belvin said casually, dropping a revelation that made Naomi’s pulse spike. "The glass he threw wasn't an outburst. It was a signal to a federal strike team parked two blocks away. They wanted Titan to tear his throat out so they could enter this establishment on an emergency warrant, put the dog down, and seize my server logs."

Naomi stared at him. "You knew?"

"I knew," Belvin said. "What I didn't calculate was a twenty-four-year-old waitress stepping into the line of fire to save my dog's life. You neutralised a federal trap without a single round being fired."

The heavy oak door opened, and Marco stepped in, pale as a sheet. "Boss... the union rep from the restaurant staff is outside. He says Naomi broke protocol by interfering with a patron. He's demanding her termination."

Belvin didn't even look at Marco. "Tell the union rep that if he mentions her name again, I will buy his union, fire his board, and have his pension liquidated by morning."

Marco swallowed hard. "Yes, Mr. Santoro."

"And Marco," Belvin added smoothly. "Miss Rivers no longer works for Corso Restorante."

Naomi’s heart dropped into her stomach. "Mr. Santoro, please—I need this job. My sister’s treatment—"

"You're not serving drinks anymore, Naomi," Belvin interrupted, stepping up to her side. He looked down at Titan, who let out a soft sigh under Naomi’s hand. "You are now the personal behavioral strategist for the Santoro estate. Your salary is three hundred thousand dollars a year, fully paid medical insurance through my private network, and full coverage for your sister’s oncology treatment at Sloan Kettering."

Naomi sat frozen. The sheer scale of the offer was staggering—it was life-saving, miraculous, and utterly terrifying.

"What's the catch?" she whispered.

Belvin leaned down, his face inches from hers. The sharp scent of cedar and steel rolled off him. "The catch is that you move into my estate in Bedford tonight. You don't leave my perimeter without my security team. Because by saving Titan, you ruined a federal investigation—and the man who hired Castellano is going to realize very quickly who saved my life."

"Who hired him?" Naomi asked.

Belvin’s smile was a razor-thin line. "A man named Julian Vance."

Naomi’s breath hitched in her chest. The color drained completely from her face. Julian Vance was the predatory hedge-fund manager who had defrauded her father’s company six years ago, driving her father to suicide and stripping her family of every cent they possessed.

"You know him," Belvin observed, his eyes narrowing as he caught her visceral reaction.