Chapter 1 - THE INVITATION IN THE OFFICEThe shattered crystal on the marble floor of Corso Ristorante felt like a lifetime away, but the heavy scent of spilled Macallan still lingered in Naomi’s memory.
Twenty-four hours had passed since she dropped that tray, and the memory of Titan resting his heavy, trembling head against her shoulder was already burning up the digital landscape. A blurry video taken by a terrified hedge fund manager on his iPhone had hit TikTok and Facebook under the viral headline: "THE MANHATTAN MOB'S DEADLIEST BEAST BOWS TO AN EXHAUSTED QUEENS WAITRESS — WHO IS SHE?"
By noon, it had three million views. By evening, reporters were swarming Corso Ristorante, flashing cash at hostesses and trying to bribe line cooks for Naomi Rivers’ home address. But Naomi wasn’t hiding in Queens. She was sitting inside the private, bulletproof glass office on the top floor of Santoro Holdings, staring at a mahogany desk that cost more than her entire apartment building.
Belvin Santoro sat across from her. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket; his white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing faint, dark scars that spoke of a very different life than the one presented in Forbes magazine.
"You didn't show up for your morning shift at the diner on Northern Boulevard," Belvin said, his voice flat, emotionless, and entirely terrifying.
"I had to pick up Maya from her physical therapy appointment," Naomi replied, keeping her spine straight. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap to hide the slight tremor in her fingers. She couldn't afford to look weak here. Not when she was still eight hundred and forty dollars short on her sister's medical bill, and certainly not when facing a man whose glance could end a person's livelihood overnight.
Belvin slid a manila folder across the polished wood.
Naomi didn't touch it. "What is this?"
"Your background check," Belvin said quietly. "Orphaned at nineteen. Raised your younger sister Maya through three surgeries for spinal dysplasia. Two jobs—working a diner dawn shift, pulling doubles at Corso. You graduated top of your class in animal behavioral psychology at NYU before your tuition ran dry. And you owe six thousand dollars to a predatory medical lender based out of Brooklyn."
Naomi’s breath hitched. Anger flared hot and fast beneath her ribs. "You checked into me?"
"In my position, information is survival, Miss Rivers," Belvin replied, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "You handled a hundred and forty pounds of traumatized American pit bull that two dozen armed guards couldn't approach. You diagnosed a neurological feedback loop while patrons were screaming for his blood. And then you walked away without asking for a dime."
"I did my job. I stopped a disaster."
"You did something much more dangerous," Belvin whispered, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "You made my dog fall in love with you."
Just as the words left his mouth, a low, rumbling growl echoed from the corner of the office. Out from behind a velvet privacy screen stepped Titan. His brindle coat gleamed under the soft office lighting, completely healed and calm. But the moment he saw Naomi, his tail gave a cautious, rhythmic thump against the carpet. He walked straight past Belvin, bypassed the heavy leather chairs, and pressed his massive head directly into Naomi's lap.
Naomi froze, then slowly raised a hand to scratch behind his left ear. Titan let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure contentment.
Belvin watched them, a faint, rare flicker of amusement touching the corners of his mouth.
"Titan hasn't let a soul touch him since he was pulled out of an illegal fighting ring in New Jersey three years ago," Belvin said. "Except for me. And now, you."
"Dogs don't care about last names or bank accounts," Naomi murmured, her fingers sinking into the thick fur of the pit bull's neck. "They only care about who makes them feel safe."
Belvin stood up, walking slowly around the desk until he was standing right beside her chair. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a checkbook and a heavy black keycard.
"Here is my proposal, Naomi Rivers," Belvin said, dropping the keycard onto the desk. It clattered softly against the wood. "The debt collector hounding your sister will never call her again. Her medical bills for the next five years are paid in full. In exchange, you resign from Corso Ristorante tonight. You move into the penthouse suite two floors above this office. And you become Titan’s permanent handler, behavioral consultant, and companion."
Naomi looked from the keycard up to the cold, powerful face of the man they called the King of Manhattan.
"And if I say no?" she asked, her voice steady.
Belvin’s expression didn't change, but the air in the room suddenly felt thin. "Then you go back to working eighteen-hour days, praying your sister’s spine doesn't flare up, while every tabloid journalist in New York tries to hunt down your apartment. The choice, Miss Rivers, is entirely yours."
Titan shifted in her lap, letting out a soft whine as if sensing the tension.
May you like
Naomi looked down at the dog who had trusted her when the whole world wanted him dead, then looked back at Belvin. She reached out, picked up the keycard, and slid it into her pocket.
"When do I start?" she asked.
