Chapter 3
The silence that settled over Corso Restorante was absolute, heavy with the weight of unexploded ordnance.
Belvin Santoro closed the distance between them until he was standing directly over Naomi and the massive dog. Up close, he smelled of expensive sandalwood, ozone, and cold steel. His tailored charcoal suit didn't have a single wrinkle, contrasting sharply with the chaotic scene of spilled wine, shattered crystal, and cowering staff.
"Get up," Belvin said. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a gravity that pulled the air straight out of the room.
Naomi didn't flinch. She kept her palm resting flat against Titan’s broad skull, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of the dog’s heart finally begin to slow down under her touch. She raised her chin, meeting Belvin’s obsidian gaze head-on. Her green eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, ringed with dark circles, but they didn't waver.
"If I stand up too fast, his adrenaline spike will return," Naomi replied evenly, her voice dropping into a professional register. "He reacted to the sharp acoustic frequency of the glass shattering combined with Castellano’s sudden aggressive posture. To him, it wasn't a tantrum—it was an ambush."
Belvin’s left eyebrow arched just a fraction of an inch. "You diagnose canine psychological triggers while waiting tables?"
"I used to study veterinary behavioral science at Columbia before life got expensive," she said, her tone flat, lacking the deferential stutter every other employee used when addressing the mob boss.
Across the room, Marco was frantically waving his hands, mouthing frantic apologies. "Mr. Santoro, please, she’s just an overworked kid, she doesn't know—fire her right now, I'll clear her out—"
"Quiet, Marco," Belvin murmured without turning around. His eyes remained locked on Naomi. He crouched down—a fluid, dangerous movement for a man of his stature and status. He didn't care about the spilled Macallan soaking into his handmade Italian leather shoes. He reached out and touched Titan’s flank.
The dog didn't growl. Under Naomi’s hand and the steady presence of his master, Titan let out a long, shuddering sigh, his heavy eyelids drooping.
"He hasn't let anyone outside my primary security detail touch him since he was two years old," Belvin said softly, his voice dropping an octave as if speaking to himself. "Anyone who tried usually lost a finger or required stitches."
"Because people treat him like a firearm," Naomi said, her voice sharpening with a sudden, repressed surge of bitterness born from six double shifts and months of hospital bills. "You don't holster a living creature in cruelty and expect him not to misfire when the world gets too loud. He’s hyper-vigilant because his environment is a war zone."
The guards behind Belvin tensed collectively, hands tightening on their grips. Talking back to Belvin Santoro was a death sentence. In this room, men kissed his ringed fingers and begged for mercy over missed payments. No one lectured him on animal husbandry.
For three agonizing seconds, the air froze solid.
Then, a low, rumbling chuckle escaped Belvin’s throat. It wasn't warm, but it was real.
"You've got a sharp mouth for someone standing in a room full of men who carry shovels for a living, Miss..." He paused, waiting.
"Rivers. Naomi Rivers."
"Naomi," Belvin repeated, testing the syllables on his tongue like a rare vintage. He stood back up to his full, imposing height, looking down at her with a look that defied simple categorization—it was a mix of calculated assessment and dangerous curiosity. "Clean this up," he told Marco over his shoulder, though his eyes never left Naomi. Then, looking back down at her, he added, "And you—walk with me to the office in the back."
"I'm in the middle of a double shift," Naomi said instantly, her survival instincts kicking in. "My section is table four through ten, and if I walk off the floor—"
"Your shift is over," Belvin interrupted smoothly, pulling a thick wad of crisp, hundred-dollar bills from his inner jacket pocket. He peeled off ten of them without looking and dropped them onto the wet tablecloth near her ruined tray. That was a thousand dollars—more than she made in two weeks of breaking her back at Corso. "That covers your wages, your tip, and the rest of your night."
Naomi stared at the cash. Her mind screamed Take it, Maya’s next chemotherapy installment is covered. Her gut screamed This is a trap. You don't take money from ghosts.
Before she could speak, Titan nudged her hand with his wet snout, urging her to stand.
May you like
"I don't take charity," Naomi said stiffly, climbing to her feet with aching knees, though she kept her eyes level.
"It’s not charity," Belvin replied, a faint, humorless smile touching the corner of his lips. "It’s an hourly retainer. Come along, Naomi. Let's see if you're as good at reading people as you are at reading dogs."
