Page 10 of Enforcer Daddy
"Blyad," he muttered, but there was warmth in the profanity. "I see this dog taught you your manners."
I couldn't process it. Couldn't reconcile the gun, the dead eyes, the bloody knuckles with someone who found a puppy pissing on his probably-thousand-dollar shoes funny instead of infuriating.
"He's just a baby," I said, hating how my voice cracked. "He doesn't know any better."
"Neither do you, apparently," the man said, but that thread of amusement was still there, warming his voice from permafrost to merely freezing. "Spitting on people's shoes, breaking into their property, accusations of Mafia affiliation. Someone should teach you some manners."
The puppy, oblivious to the weird tension in the room, finished his business and wobbled back toward his newspaper nest. But halfway there, his legs gave out and he tumbled onto his side with a tiny whimper that broke my heart all over again.
"He's sick," I said unnecessarily. "I found him yesterday. Someone just left him in a dumpster with his eye all fucked up."
"And you couldn't leave him." It wasn't a question. The man's grip on my wrists loosened slightly—still firm enough that I couldn't break free, but no longer treating me like an immediate threat. "Even though you were running from something. Someone. Listen. I’m going to let go of you. Donotrun. I promise it will not be worth your while. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
He let go. Then, he did something that made no sense—he crouched down to the puppy's level. He was instantly vulnerable—I could push him and run, kick him in the head. But I didn’t. Instead, I watched him.
"Privet, malen'kiy," he murmured in Russian, his voice gentling in a way that didn't match his dead eyes or bloody knuckles.
The puppy, traitor that he was, wobbled forward at the sound. His tail stub wiggled harder, and he made that tiny whimpering sound that meant he wanted attention, wanted to be held, wanted someone to make the hurt stop.
The man extended his free hand slowly, letting the puppy sniff his fingers first. The same fingers that had held a gun to my head three minutes ago now stayed perfectly still, letting a sick puppy investigate them with his good eye.
"Swollen eye. I see it," he said, but he was talking to himself more than me. His fingers ghosted over the puppy's face, not quite touching the swollen tissue. "Trauma from whatever bastard dumped him. He’ll be ok. No infection."
What the fuck? Since when did mob enforcers know veterinary medicine?
The puppy licked his fingers, leaving a trail of drool. The man didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, he gently lifted the puppy's lip, examining his gums.
"Pale. Anemic, probably from parasites. Fleas for certain, likely worms too." His hand moved to the puppy's ribs, feeling each one with careful precision. "Malnutrition obviously, but not starvation. Maybe four or five days without consistent food. The muscle tone is still decent."
"How do you—" I started, then bit my tongue. Don't engage. Don't ask questions. Don't make yourself more interesting to this psycho.
"Breathing pattern suggests possible respiratory infection," he continued, ignoring my half-question. "That wheeze isn't normal, even for a brachycephalic breed mix. He needs antibiotics. Immediately."
The puppy tried to climb into his lap, paws scrabbling against his black jeans. The man caught him gently with his free hand, supporting his weight.
"Maybe ten weeks old," he said, examining the puppy's teeth with the same gentle precision. "Pit bull mix, definitely. Maybe some American Bulldog in there. The head shape is distinctive. Someone probably got him as a cute puppy, then realized their building had breed restrictions."
"I thought he was dying," I said quietly. "He was in a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. Just . . . thrown away like garbage. His eye was already fucked up, and he was crying, and I couldn't—I couldn't just walk past."
"Even though you're running from Chenkov. Even though stopping for a sick puppy could get you killed."
"Everything could get me killed. At least this way something good happens first."
"Interesting," he said again, and I was about to tell him to find a new word when the sound cut through everything else.
Vehicles outside. Multiple engines. Doors slamming hard enough to echo through the storage facility's thin walls.
Russian voices, loud and aggressive. Not trying to be subtle. Not trying to hide.
The man's entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The gentleness vanished like it had never existed. His body went from controlled to coiled, a weapon waiting to fire. He rose from his crouch in one fluid motion, pulling me up with him, and suddenly the gun was back in his hand like a magic trick.
"Fucking Morozovs," he muttered, and there was something in his voice that suggested this was a complication he hadn't expected. Or wanted.
His eyes swept the storage unit with new urgency, cataloging exits that didn't exist, weapons that might be hidden in his boxes, angles of attack and defense. I could practically see him running calculations, probabilities, murder math.
"How many men saw you come in here?" His voice had gone sharp, urgent.
