Page 5 of Corrupted Heir (Mafia Kings: Corrupted 1)

She just laughed and skipped toward the front of the building “Go home, Fallon,” she called as the tinkling of the bell over the front door sounded. “Love you lots.”

“I love you too, honey,” I called back.

I looked over the room filled with my patients one last time then turned off the light and headed to the reception area. I could catch up on some paperwork. Or take a look at my schedule for tomorrow. Maybe do a quick inventory check.

Okay, even I could see it now—I was stalling. On the surface, I had my hands full with my practice, but behind the scenes, at home at the end of the day, there was nothing but four walls to keep me company. Here, surrounded by sleeping animals, at least I wasn’t alone.

“You’re hitting a new low, Moore,” I mumbled under my breath while I grabbed my purse, turned the lights off, and entered the reception area. I left the building and had just turned the key when someone from behind me spoke.

“You need to help him. Now,” the voice said, deep and clear but with a haggard edge in his tone.

I spun around, keeping my keys between my fingers like claws, but I gasped when I saw him. He was tall, perhaps the tallest man I’d ever been this close to, and though his dark hair was tousled, and a deep furrow was drawn between his brows, he looked like a freaking male model.

When my brief perusal reached his torso, my jaw dropped. There was blood, so much blood. There was a small pup in his arms, a long-haired Chihuahua, but so much blood saturated his brown fur, he appeared more russet and crimson than brown. The animal trembled, but otherwise laid lifeless in the man’s arms.

“Oh my God, what happened to him?” I gasped. “Um, we just closed, but, of course, I’ll treat him. Come with me and put him on the table.”

The tall Italian nodded then followed me through the building to the steel table inside my operating room. He stood still while I prepared the table for the pup. Too still, aside from his eyes that seemed to be following my every movement. Most clients who came in with injured animals paced back and forth the room or fidgeted nervously. Their worry was written all over their faces, but this man didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

When the table was ready, I nodded toward it, and the man moved to put the Chihuahua down on it, leaving the dog’s head hanging limply at an awkward angle.

I quickly stepped forward and took the dog from his hands.

“You have to be careful, sir. You don’t want to hurt him further,” I scolded mildly.

He glared at me, and a cold shiver ghosted down my spine.

I forced my gaze away and turned my attention to the injured animal, prodding gently through the long fur matted with blood.

“Do you know how he was injured?” I asked, figuring so much blood was likely the result of a car accident.

“He was shot,” the man said plainly.

My hands froze. “Shot?”

Who the hell would shoot a dog?

Carefully, I turned the dog over, searching for the telltale blood that would signify an exit wound. There wasn’t any. The bullet was lodged inside him.

“Poor baby,” I crooned, stroking his small head. “We’ll get that nasty bullet out of you, little guy.”

The man laughed, though there was no humor in it.

“The dog’s name is Bullet,” he said when I cast a glance up at him.

A knot formed at the back of my throat. Bullet was in great distress—and had his very own namesake stuck in his side. If I didn’t operate soon, I feared he would bleed out on my table. I wouldn’t let that happen.

I grabbed the trimmer and went to work shaving the fur around the wound for easier access. The man came closer, practically leaning over my shoulder to watch what I was doing. He smelled of cedarwood and tobacco, like an heirloom trunk, or a box of expensive cigars, sprinkled with a bit of citrus. I would have liked the smell if the room wasn’t filled with the metallic scent of blood.

Having him so close, watching me so intently, made me nervous.

“You need to take a seat in the waiting area. I’ll come get you as soon as I’m finished,” I told him in my best no-nonsense voice.

“I don’t think so, Miss Moore,” he said, completely unaffected. “I’ll be staying right here.”

I heaved a sigh. Bullet didn’t have time for this man’s stubbornness. “What’s your name?” I asked, putting the trimmer down on the small, metal table beside me as I turned to face him. The sharp gaze in his gray eyes startled me.

“Dominic, though I don’t see how that’s relevant to the task at hand,” he said, cocking a brow.

---