Chapter 4 - The Unwelcome Visitor
Two days later, the afternoon sun was warm enough to coax customers out onto the sidewalks of Fells Point. Happy Tails was bustling with activity. Emily was knee-deep in suds, shampooing a very grumpy golden retriever named Barnaby, while the shop's front bell chimed cheerfully as new clients walked in.
Brutus was nowhere to be seen—Dante had apparently kept him at his secure estate while the dog’s paw finished healing—yet Emily found her mind constantly drifting back to the encounter.
Her peaceful afternoon, however, was about to be violently interrupted.
The front door swung open with a harsh, aggressive slam. The cheerful bell jangled wildly. Three men walked in, completely ignoring the grooming counter and heading straight toward the back inventory room. They didn't look like pet owners. They wore sharp, cheap suits, slicked-back hair, and carried themselves with the swagger of low-level enforcers working for the rival Moretti syndicate.
Emily froze, dropping the spray nozzle back into the basin. She wiped her soapy hands on her apron and stepped out from behind the washing station.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Emily asked, her voice tight with immediate apprehension. “We’re currently booked for appointments today, but if you need pet supplies—”
“We aren't here for dog food, sweetheart,” the lead man sneered. He had a nasty scar running across his upper lip and dead, shark-like eyes. His name was Sal, and he was one of Salvatore Moretti’s primary loan sharks operating in the district. “We’re here about protection fees.”
Emily’s blood ran cold. “Protection fees? This is a pet grooming shop. I pay my city taxes and my commercial lease. I don't pay protection to thugs.”
Sal chuckled darkly, stepping closer to the counter and slamming his palm down on the glass display case, making the ceramic figurines rattle. “Things have changed in Fells Point, doll. Valente might think he owns this waterfront, but the Moretti family is expanding its reach. Every business on this block pays a weekly tax of five thousand dollars to ensure their windows don't get smashed and their shops don't mysteriously catch fire.”
“Five thousand dollars?” Emily gasped. “Are you insane? That’s more than my monthly inventory budget!”
“That sounds like a personal problem,” Sal said, reaching out roughly and grabbing a fistful of Emily’s green apron, hauling her toward him across the counter. “You either pay up today, or we start breaking cages. Let’s see how many puppies survive a fire.”
Panic flared in Emily’s chest, but before she could open her mouth to scream, the air inside the shop grew suddenly, terrifyingly cold.
The front door didn't just open—it swung completely off its latch with a thunderous crash as two massive men in dark suits breached the entrance, followed immediately by a tall, imposing figure in a charcoal coat.
Dante Valente had arrived.
The temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. Sal froze, his hand still gripping Emily’s apron, his smug smile evaporating instantly as he looked up and saw the most feared man in Baltimore standing five feet away.
“Sal,” Dante said, his voice dangerously soft, carrying across the silent shop like a death knell. “I thought I made it very clear last month during our sit-down on Pratt Street. Fells Point belongs to my logistics network. That means my streets. My blocks. My people.”
Sal’s hand trembled, instantly releasing Emily’s apron. He stumbled backward, his face turning the color of curdled milk. “Mr... Mr. Valente! I—we didn't know! We didn't know this shop was under your—your umbrella!”
“It isn't under my umbrella,” Dante said slowly, taking two deliberate steps forward until he was towering over Sal. His grey eyes burned with cold, murderous fury. “It’s under my personal protection.”
Before Sal could stutter another syllable, Dante moved with terrifying, blinding speed. He seized Sal by the throat, slamming him backward against the glass display case with enough force to shatter the safety glass into a thousand glittering shards.
Sal gasped, his feet dangling inches off the floor as Dante’s grip tightened like a hydraulic press.
“You walked into her shop,” Dante whispered, his voice trembling with a suppressed rage that terrified even his own guards. “You put your hands on her. You threatened her livelihood.”
“Boss! Please!” Sal choked out, his face turning purple. “I didn't—I swear to God—!”
“Marco,” Dante said without breaking eye contact with the dying enforcer.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Take these three clowns down to the dry docks. Tie them to the concrete pillars beneath the lower pier. Let the tide decide if Moretti wants to pay ransom for them tomorrow morning.”
“Right away, Boss,” Marco said, signaling the other guards, who grabbed the remaining two trembling Moretti thugs by their collars and dragged them screaming out the door.
Dante released his grip. Sal hit the shattered glass floor in a heap, coughing, gasping, and crawling frantically toward the exit before scrambling out into the street on his hands and knees.
The shop was dead silent once more, save for the hum of the grooming blow dryers in the background.
Emily stood frozen behind her counter, her chest heaving, staring at Dante. The sheer, terrifying brutality she had just witnessed was unlike anything she had ever imagined, yet standing right in front of her, Dante slowly smoothed down his lapel, exhaled a calm breath, and turned his dark eyes toward her.
The monster who had just sentenced three men to a terrifying fate softened instantly as he looked at her.
“Are you hurt?” Dante asked, his voice returning to that low, resonant, surprisingly gentle tone.
May you like
Emily swallowed hard, her hands shaking as she gripped the edge of the counter. “No... I’m not hurt. But Mr. Valente... you can’t just wage a turf war inside a pet boutique! Moretti is going to retaliate!”
“Let him try,” Dante said, stepping closer, his gaze steady and absolute. “Moretti doesn't know what a real war looks like yet. But he’s about to find out.”
