“Oh wow, you’re still just a puppy,” I whisper, noticing the dog’s juvenile size and clunky paws that seem too big for his legs. “Do you want some pets?” Crouching, I run my palms up and down his neck. “A good boy like you certainly deserves some pets, don’t you think?”
A warm, wet tongue slides up my cheek. Once. Twice. Then the puppy pushes his head into my hand, my chest, my neck.
“You’re going to knock me over.” A small giggle escapes me. The furry baby must be close to seventy pounds. “Are you hungry, too? Want me to see if there’s some chow for you around here?”
That slightly rough tongue licks the back of my hand as I stand up and start looking through the cupboards for where the dog food might be kept.
“I assume you’re not interested in sharing an orange with me,” I say, opening the oversized refrigerator.
My family never had an abundance of money. We always managed to get by with frugality, coupon clipping, and just generally being less wasteful. But no matter how tough things got, the four shelves in our small fridge were always stacked with containers of leftovers (usually of things Mom prepared at her job), some make-ahead dishes like a soup or a sauce, or a couple of pieces of homemade pie that I got to have upon getting home. Whatever was there was always delicious and made from scratch with someone in mind. Dad’s favorite chicken cacciatore. Mom’s beloved gnocchi bolognese. And pasta carbonara for me. Regardless of what we had, whenever I opened the fridge, I experienced that warm feeling of a happy and safe home. A testament that our place was lived in and not just for show.
The inside of Ruffo’s fridge is practically empty.
The bright interior light of the French door contraption shines the spotlight on the immaculate—and almost entirely devoid of food—glass shelves and pull-out compartments. The contents of the sad fridge are a transparent takeout box with the logo of a prestigious steakhouse in town, three small glass bottles of mineral water, and an open bottle of wine. According to the label, it’s a fifty-year-old Portuguese port. We ordered a case for Don Spada last month, so I recognize the sticker from the auction house on the neck of the bottle.
A bottle of booze worth over ten grand, some sparkling water, and a piece of an unfinished steak. That’s it. That’s all there is inside Ruffo’s extra-large fridge.
“Guess you’re getting the filet mignon,” I murmur.
I rise on my toes to reach the top shelf and take out the leftover steak. The piece is small and likely won’t do much to feed a dog of his size, but it’s all I can find at the moment.
“Here,” I say as I extend the offering on my palm.
“Don’t!” A furious order explodes across the silent space.
I shriek and stumble back, colliding with the still-open fridge door. A loud crash follows as the wine bottle hits the marble floor and shatters into a multitude of pieces. I almost don’t register the sting on the side of my right foot as I watch in stunned disbelief while the rich copper liquid seeps out from a fractured neck and spreads across the tiled floor, soaking my bare feet.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Ruffo’s roar echoes through the room as he rushes toward me, his face a mask of scarcely restrained fury. The dog starts to bark, too; his loud snarls adding to my anxiety.
“I’m so sorry,” I choke out, somehow still gripping the piece of meat in my now trembling hand. I drop to my haunches and reach for the nearest shard. “I’m so, so sorry. It was an accident. I’ll—”
Two massive arms wrap around me, one sliding under my knees, the other around my back. Next thing I know, I’m being lifted.
Breathless, my gaze collides with Ruffo’s glacial blues, mere inches from mine.
“Accident?” he growls into my face. “You could’ve lost your hand. Or at least your fingers.”
I blink, utterly confused. “W-what?”
“That damn dog is a menace. He’s not fully trained and can be very aggressive. If you tried to feed him from your hand, he could have easily bitten it off.”
As if to emphasize Ruffo’s point, the dog lets out a dangerous-sounding growl. I glance over my husband’s shoulder, instantly noticing the offensive crouch as if the puppy is ready to attack, eyes fixed on Ruffo’s unprotected back. His big brown eyes dart to me for a brief second, but quickly refocus on the man of the house. Then he lets out another warning bark.
“I think you should put me down,” I whisper.
“Not a chance. There’s broken glass everywhere.”
“Um…” I look at Ruffo, our gazes clashing again. “Your dog might think you’re planning to eat me.”
His brows shoot up at my words.
“He is in a ready stance,” I say. “Giving you a warning. You need to reassure him that your intent is not to harm me.”
“Reassure him?”
“Yes.”
“Should I issue an official press release?”
