She thought her daughter was making up bedtime stories, until a mob boss’s attack dog tore through the cottage door to hunt a shadowy intruder.

The rain had reached a deafening crescendo by the time Sophie’s mother pushed open the heavy wooden door of the stone cottage.

Elena Miller was twenty-eight, her slender frame wrapped in a dark-blue maid’s uniform beneath a damp woolen cardigan. Her chestnut hair—identical in shade to her daughter’s—was tied back in an exhausted, utilitarian knot, with damp strands plastered to her temples. Her hands smelled of lavender linen spray and lemon floor wax from twelve hours of deep-cleaning the primary villa’s formal reception rooms.

She pushed her wet boots off at the threshold, setting down her wicker basket of clean towels on the hallway bench.

"Sophie?" Elena called softly, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the child if she had already drifted off. "Baby, Mommy’s done with the silver. I brought you the warm milk with honey."

Silence answered her, save for the violent thrumming of the thunderstorm outside.

Elena walked down the short, narrow corridor of the cottage, stepping onto the braided rag rug of the small bedroom. The door stood half ajar, a warm, amber spill of light escaping from the ceramic rabbit nightlamp on the dresser.

Elena pushed the door open—and froze dead in her tracks.

The mug of warm milk in her hands tilted, hot liquid splashing over her knuckles, but the pain didn't register against the sheer, paralyzing shock that locked her joints.

Stretched across the foot of the brass twin bed was Bruno.

The massive Cane Corso occupied two-thirds of the mattress, his jet-black bulk forming an immovable, impenetrable wall between the door and the headboard. His front paws were tucked neatly over the pink floral quilt, his chin resting against the brass rail, his deep amber eyes fixed on Elena the moment her shoe crossed the threshold. He did not growl—he knew her scent—but his ears remained pinned forward in an posture of absolute territorial readiness.

Tucked into the curve of the dog’s massive ribcage, fast asleep beneath the sheets, was Sophie.

The three-year-old was curled on her side in her royal-blue dress, both of her small arms wrapped tightly around the dog’s thick, muscular neck. Her cheek was pressed against his black fur, and her gold star-shaped pillow was wedged between her knees like a shield.

"Mother of God," Elena breathed, setting the mug down onto the bedside table with trembling hands. She took two cautious steps forward, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Bruno? Why... why are you in here?"

The Cane Corso gave a single, low thump of his cropped tail against the mattress, refusing to shift his position by an inch.

Sophie stirred. Her thick eyelashes fluttered, her small brow furrowing as she adjusted to the light of the hallway. She didn't let go of the dog’s neck; she simply tilted her chin upward, blinking at her mother with drowsy, contented hazel eyes.

"Mommy," Sophie murmured, her voice sweet and heavy with sleep.

"Sophie, sweetheart," Elena whispered, dropping to her knees beside the mattress, her hands gently touching her daughter's hair. "What is Mr. Moretti's dog doing in your bed? If Dante finds out he's in the cottage—"

"I asked him," Sophie said simply, uncurling one hand to pat the mastiff's scarred cheek. "Mr. Dante said yes."

Elena stared at her daughter in absolute disbelief. Dante Moretti did not lend his personal bodyguard dog to domestic staff. Dante Moretti did not indulge toddlers. The man was a shadow whose very name kept the local police commissioners awake at night.

"Why would you ask for Bruno, baby?" Elena asked, her voice trembling with an uneasy premonition. "You have your bear. You have your star."