He Ordered His Vicious Pit Bull to Attack a Young Waitress — Then the Mafia Boss Witnessed Something No One Expected

CHAPTER 2

The envelope came three nights later, carried by a man in a charcoal suit who introduced himself only as Mr. Crowe’s associate. Inside was more cash than six months of tips, and a note in handwriting too precise to belong to anyone who wrote casually.

*You’re wasted on the floor. Table seven, tomorrow, eight sharp.*

Everyone at the Serpent’s Den knew what it meant when Sebastian Crowe took a personal interest. Protection. Insulation from the men who circled the dining room like sharks scenting blood. And a price nobody said out loud: you belonged to him now.

She spent the night awake, running the arithmetic of walking away — no debt relief, no target on her back, a life smaller but hers. By dawn, the numbers hadn’t changed. There was no refusing Sebastian Crowe. Refusal was just acceptance with extra suffering built in.

He was reviewing documents when she arrived, tattooed fingers tracing lines of text like a man reading a contract he’d already decided to enforce. Cerberus lay at his feet. His tail thumped once at her approach, and something in Sebastian’s expression sharpened at that.

“Sit,” he said. “Not a request.”

She sat.

“You understand what this means. You serve me exclusively. You hear things that get people killed forty different ways, and you repeat none of it.” He closed the folder. “In exchange, your debt disappears. Your mother’s bills — gone. The collectors forget your name.”

He’d researched her. Knew exactly where to press.

“Why me?” she managed.

Sebastian leaned back, studying her the way he’d studied the documents. “Because Cerberus chose you. In five years he’s trusted exactly one person. Now there are two.” Something flickered behind his eyes — vulnerability, quickly buried. “I need to know if you’re a weakness my enemies will exploit, or something else entirely.”

Around them, the restaurant kept its dangerous rhythm — a senator shaking hands with a man the FBI had hunted for a decade, cash sliding across leather folios, threats delivered with smiles over seventy-dollar steaks.

“I accept,” Nenah said quietly.

Two words. Half surrender, half something dangerously close to choice.