Page 107 of Mafia and Gold Digger

CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE

SAINT

I push open the front door, fully expecting the usual chaos of paws skidding across the hardwood floor and the boisterous barks of my dogs.

But instead of the usual blur of black and white fur, I freeze at the sight that greets me.

My jaw drops like an out-of-control express elevator hurtling to the ground.

Fuck me.

What the fuck?

Fuck.Me.Did I already say that?

Because both dogs are sitting in the middle of my grand entryway, staring at me with their bright blue eyes, their tails wagging just enough to show they have no clue how utterly ridiculous they look.

And they do look absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Serial is wearing a hot pink, glittery tutu skirt that barely covers his fluffy haunches, while Killer is sporting a purple tutu that sparkles and glints under the soft glow of the overhead light.

I blink.

Once and a second time.

Then I clench and unclench my jaw and try to suppress the fury that’s threatening to escape.

"Emerald!" I yell as I step fully inside.

I shrug off my jacket, still staring at the dogs, unable to take my gaze off them. But they seem completely unbothered by their new attire.

Emerald saunters into the entryway, far too casual for my liking. “Did youhollerfor me?”

"Emerald, what in God’s name is this?" I growl.

There's no immediate answer as she tilts her head to one side and just looks at me.

She’s fucking enjoying this.

And I might just have to goddamn kill her.

“Why the hell are Serial and Killer—er, I mean, Pumpkin and Poochie—dressed like a pair of glittery hoes?”

Her eyes widen. “You shouldn’t call them hoes?—”

But before she can say any more, I hear the soft scamper of little feet and then a high-pitched giggle.

My stomach tightens.

Because I already know. Oh Jesus, Mary, and all the saints, please save me from this, and I promise I’ll never kill anyone ever again…

Giulietta skips forward until she comes to a stop in front of me, her hair falling over her face and her tiny hands clutched together in excitement.

Her big, round eyes shine as she looks from the dogs to me, then back to the dogs.

"Do you like it, Mr. Saint?" the little girl asks, bouncing on her toes.

I glance at the dogs again. Serial whines, clearly uninterested in any of this nonsense, while Killer flops onto his back, kicking his legs like he's fully embraced the absurdity. Try as I might, I still can’t get used to their new names of Pumpkin and Poochie.

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