Everyone Screamed When The Mafia Boss’s Wolfdog Broke Free—Then It Chose The Plus-Size Woman

The cold, circular hole of the pistol silencer looked enormous from three feet away.

Hannah Reed didn't scream. Years of surviving the foster care system and working the rough-and-tumble animal shelters of the South Side had taught her one vital lesson: panic was a luxury that got you killed.

She gripped the white envelope behind her back, pressing it flat against her thigh, her hazel eyes locked onto the smiling, well-dressed man standing in the doorway.

“Santino Moretti, I presume?” Hannah said, her voice remarkably steady, carrying a cool, mocking edge that visibly startled the intruder.

Santino’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a dark, dangerous curiosity. He lowered the gun a mere centimeter, stepping further into the opulent parlor.

“Impressive,” Santino murmured, his dark, slicked-back hair and tailored charcoal suit projecting an eerie, polished facsimile of Lorenzo’s presence—minus the heavy, unshakeable gravity. “Most women would be wetting the Persian rug right about now. Instead, you’re playing detective with my private correspondence.”

“Your correspondence was sticking out behind The Count of Monte Cristo,” Hannah replied dryly, keeping her shoulders loose and her weight balanced on the balls of her feet. “Bad hiding spot, Santino. Alexandre Dumas deserves better.”

Santino let out a soft, sharp laugh, though his eyes remained dead and calculating. “You’ve got spirit, Miss Reed. I can see why my dear cousin was so captivated by the plus-size shelter volunteer who whispers to monsters.”

He stepped closer, the muzzle of the pistol drifting back toward her chest.

“Unfortunately for you, spirit doesn't stop lead,” Santino continued smoothly. “Lorenzo thinks he can play king of Chicago while hiding his soft spots behind gates and guards. By the time he finds your body in his private parlor, he’ll realize his throne is built on sand. And then, he’ll make a mistake.”

Before Santino could tighten his finger on the trigger, a low, guttural growl vibrated through the floorboards.

Nero had been resting quietly near the fireplace, entirely unnoticed by Santino in the shadows of the velvet draperies. Now, the eighty-pound wolfdog rose to his feet. Every single muscle in his massive frame was coiled like a steel spring, his amber eyes locked onto Santino with pure, unadulterated hatred.

Santino’s eyes widened in sudden panic. He flicked the barrel of the gun toward the dog. “Stay back, you vicious beast—!”

“Nero, no!” Hannah shouted.

She didn't run away; she lunged forward, throwing her body directly between the armed mobster and the traumatized animal.

Bang.

The silenced gunshot punched a hole through the velvet drapery inches from Hannah’s ear, sending a shower of plaster dust raining down from the ceiling.

At the same exact second, Nero exploded across the room like a furry cannonball.

He didn't bark. He slammed into Santino’s chest with eighty pounds of kinetic force, sending the assassin crashing backward through the heavy oak doors and out into the second-floor landing with a sickening crunch.

The pistol skidded across the hardwood floor, coming to a halt near the base of the grand staircase.

“Hannah?!”

A roar echoed from the foyer below.

Lorenzo Moretti appeared at the bottom of the stairs, two steps at a time, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide with a terrifying, primal panic that no enemy had ever managed to evoke in him.

He reached the landing just as Nero stood over a groaning, dazed Santino, pinning the assassin’s arm to the floor with a massive paw while baring razor-sharp teeth inches from his cousin’s throat.

Lorenzo didn't look at Santino. He looked at Hannah, who was standing upright, pale, shaking slightly, but entirely unharmed.

“Are you hit?” Lorenzo demanded, his voice cracking as he grabbed her shoulders, his hands trembling slightly as he inspected her from head to toe. “Hannah, tell me you’re not hit.”

“I’m fine,” she breathed, her voice finally breaking as the adrenaline crash hit her system. “I’m okay, Lorenzo. The dog... Nero saved me.”

Lorenzo pulled her—not gently, but with desperate, overwhelming relief—into his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck. For a few seconds, the syndicate boss vanished, leaving only a man who had nearly lost the only light that had entered his dark world in a decade.

Behind them, Marco Bellini sprinted up the stairs, panting heavily, holding a pair of heavy-duty tactical zip-ties. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man pinned beneath the wolfdog.

Marco’s jaw dropped.

“Holy mother of God,” Marco whispered, staring down at the bruised face of the ghost. “Santino... you’re supposed to be dead.”

Santino spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, glaring up at Lorenzo, who slowly released Hannah and stepped over her to stand above his treacherous cousin.