Page 34 of Mafia Kingdom

I WATCH AS Sasha rushes toward her dog. She kneels beside Buddy, whispering soothing words as he retches onto the expensive rug. Her hands move with practiced care across his fur.

"He can't have steak," she mutters without looking up. "His stomach can't handle rich food."

I remain close to the desk, keeping my expression neutral despite the warmth spreading in my chest. "I'll keep that in mind."

When she finally glances up, our eyes lock. That familiar mixture of defiance and vulnerability hits me like a physical blow. Christ, she's beautiful—even now, disheveled and angry, with worry etched across her face. The memory of our kiss burns on my lips, a mistake I knew better than to make, but one I'd make again in a heartbeat.

"Do you have any towels?" she asks, her voice softer now.

I shake my head and push away from the desk, stepping out into the hallway. It doesn’t take long to spot one of my security.

“I need you to clean up some vomit,” I say. A flicker of revulsion sparks in my security man’s eyes. They can dismemberpeople, but the thought of cleaning up vomit is too much. But he nods and hurries off to fetch cleaning supplies. I step back into the room and crouch down beside Sasha.

"Come on," I say, my voice firm but not unkind. "Let's get him somewhere more comfortable."

Without waiting for her response, I scoop Buddy into my arms. The dog weighs more than I expected but settles against my chest with surprising ease. I carry him to a spare living room down the hall—one rarely used, with furniture still covered in plastic.

Sasha follows, her eyes wide with surprise. "You don't have to—"

"Sit," I command, nodding toward a leather armchair as I gently place Buddy on a rug near the fireplace. The dog looks up at me with sad eyes before settling his head on his paws with a sigh.

Sasha hesitates near the armchair, but clearly, she isn’t going to settle. “There is a small bathroom through that door.” I point to the door I’m speaking about. “He has a small bit of vomit on his paw.”

She seems happy to be doing something and leaves. I hear water running, and she returns with a damp cloth. She kneels beside Buddy and begins gently cleaning his paws, her movements tender.

"Thank you," she says quietly, not looking up. "For carrying him."

I don’t answer but watch her work.

As she tends to the dog, I notice the graceful line of her neck, the way a strand of hair falls across her cheek, how her hands move with such careful precision. It strikes me that I've never seen anyone in my world show such gentle care for anything.

"He'll be fine," I say, and I'm surprised by the softness in my voice. "Dogs are resilient."

She glances up at me, a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe—in her eyes. "I know. I just worry about him."

As she finishes cleaning the dog’s paws, I can't help but remember the first time I saw her all those years ago. Just seventeen, she'd been—too young, too innocent, too good for the likes of me. The daughter of a low-level gambler, she should've been beneath my notice. But there was something about her even then—a quiet strength, a dignity that seemed to rise above her circumstances.

I'd kept my distance. Men like me destroyed women like her. It was the natural order of things.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Lucas again, third time tonight. I send it to voicemail and straighten up; decision made.

"Clean yourself up and get some rest," I tell her, my voice leaving no room for argument. "I have business to attend to."

She looks up, wariness creeping into her expression. "What kind of business?"

"The kind you don't need to know about." I step back, mentally shifting gears. "Be ready for tomorrow. We still have the charity event."

Her eyes widen. "After everything that's happened? Baz is in the hospital. Your brother—"

"All the more reason to stick to the plan," I cut her off, my tone hardening. "Whoever's behind this is watching. Changing our routine signals weakness."

She shakes her head, incredulous. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm practical," I counter. "And this isn't up for debate."

I expect her to fight back—almost want her to. The fire in her eyes when she challenges me is addictive. But instead, she just looks tired.

"Fine," she says flatly. "Whatever you say, Marco."

---