Page 2 of Hot for Hostage

… Mafia?

I gulped. That was crazy talk.

“Which means he basically owns the city,” Ryan added.

I doubted our city actually had amafia—it sounded like the stuff of history books and movies—but a spark of hope ignited in my chest. “So, we just need to ask this Mr. Reed to help us, and those boys will leave Happy Tails alone?”

Gladys’s white brows skyrocketed, and she gave me her signature no-nonsense look, which had my spine straighteningon instinct. “Did you miss the part where I called him apsycho? You don’t want to mess with men like Old Seb unless you have a death wish, child. And the Reeds don’t help no one but themselves. It’s part of their code.”

I was tempted to point out she’d just used a double negative, but that wouldn’t help matters.

“If you even got close enough to talk to Old Seb, he’d rip your tongue out before you could say anything,” Ryan chimed in. “Crazy bastard. His son is the one you’d want to do a job like this anyway. He does all Seb’s dirty work.”

Ignoring the unsettling thought of my tongue getting ripped out, I perked up. “So Mr. Reed’s son would help us, then?”

Gladys snorted. “Davian Reed would sooner murder a litter of puppies than do a good deed. You’d have to hold a gun to his head just to make him hear you out.”

I tried not to show my horror at the thought of a man hurting innocent little puppies, but it left a sour taste in my mouth.

Now what were we supposed to do?

Ryan snickered and glanced at the defaced wall. “Can you imagine asking Davian for something? If Old Seb would tear out your tongue, Davian would slit your throat without blinking.”

“What else would you expect from a mafia prince?” Gladys asked. “He’d stab his own father in the back if it suited him.”

I crossed my arms, unable to hide a shudder. How did my friends know so much about this supposed mafia? Usually, we talked about dogs or flea medicine or our Thursday night bowling league. Not stabbing and puppy murdering. “Okay, that’s enough of that talk. There must be something else we can do.Somethingwe haven’t tried.”

A familiar light blue sedan pulled up to the curb, and we fell silent. Our boss hobbled out of the driver’s side, wearing his usual sweater vest and khakis, with a wooden cane. Mr. Sanders had owned Happy Tails Haven for decades, and there werepictures of him in reception from long before his hair turned grey. He loved the shelter with everything in him, and it pained me to watch him take in the broken window with a shake of his head.

“Those goddamn kids.” He limped closer with a frown. “Another one?”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Mr. Sanders,” I said, determined to make it true. “I promise.”

He managed a small smile and patted my shoulder. “It’s not your problem to solve, lass. You just let me worry about this.”

“At least insurance will cover the repairs, right?” Ryan asked. “That’s a small win.”

Our boss’s smile faded. “Not this time, I’m afraid. I had to lower our coverage after the last rent hike.”

My heart twisted. The shelter’s landlord had nearly doubled the rent six months ago, and we’d been cutting costs everywhere we could. I hadn’t realized it was so bad that Mr. Sanders had to cut back on insurance.

“Adoption fees and donations are barely keeping us afloat,” he continued grimly. “My accountant says we have maybe six months before we’ll have to close up shop.”

“Close up shop?” I echoed in shock. “But Happy Tails Haven has been here for years! It’s a neighborhood treasure.”

Piles of trash littering the sidewalk and graffiti penises on the wall did little to showcase the shelter’s appeal, but it was the truth.

“We can’t let it close,” Gladys agreed.

My chest squeezed with worry, and I rubbed at it. “What will happen to the dogs?”

“They’ll get divvied up between the pounds,” Mr. Sanders said. He poked at a large crack in the sidewalk with his cane. “It’ll be a damn shame to see this place go.”

I tried to picture our sweet dogs all alone and scared at the city pounds, but it was too awful to even consider.

No, that wouldn’t do.

“I better call for a repair quote.” Sighing heavily, Mr. Sanders limped over to the door. “Don’t stay out here too long. The dogs need breakfast.”

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