They Poured Champagne on the Mafia Boss’s Blind Dog—Then He Locked the Ballroom and Asked Her to Stay

I looked down at the Doberman.

The champagne had stripped away the natural oil coating inside his nostrils, coating the delicate mucous membranes in acidic alcohol and synthetic perfume. In the dog world, it was the equivalent of pouring sand into a blind man’s open eyes.

“I need neutral water,” I yelled back across the silent room, my voice steady despite the bomb sitting thirty feet away. “And oil. High-fat cream or vegetable oil from the kitchen. Alcohol is fat-soluble. We need to lift it off his skin, not just rinse it!”

Luca didn't hesitate. He gestured sharply to his chief of security, a broad-shouldered man named Marco who was already pulling a radio from his belt.

“Open the service entrance to the kitchen,” Luca ordered. “Bring her whatever she asks for. Anyone else moves toward the doors, shoot them in the leg.”

Ten seconds later, a terrified prep cook pushed a stainless-steel cart out through the double doors of the kitchen, loaded with bottles of saline, whole milk, olive oil, and clean white hand towels.

I didn't waste time. I pulled off my evening gloves, tossed them aside, and dipped a clean towel into a bowl of whole milk.

“Hold him, Luca,” I said as the billionaire walked back over and dropped down onto his knees again.

Luca didn't question my order. The most feared man in Chicago leaned forward, wrapping his thick arms around the Doberman’s massive chest, pulling the dog’s head against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, buddy,” Luca murmured into Atlas’s cropped ear, his tone shifting so completely from the cold killer he had been ten seconds ago that my mind struggled to reconcile the two men. “I’ve got you. Let her help.”

I moved quickly, gently washing the sticky residue from the dog’s snout, using the fat in the milk to bind with the alcohol oils, then flushing his nasal passages with soft drops of sterile saline.

Atlas winced, blowing air out of his nose with a wet, snorting breath, but he didn't fight us. He trusted Luca completely, and by extension, he was beginning to trust me.

“He needs three minutes for his olfactory receptors to reset,” I said, wiping his face dry with a clean towel. “His nose is going to be hyper-sensitive now. Don't crowd him.”

“We don't have three minutes,” Luca said, his dark eyes fixing on the blinking red light of the detonator across the room. “The receiver on that charge is active. Whoever is holding the trigger is waiting for the right moment—or waiting for Vance to give a signal that he’s clear.”

“Then we don't look for the bomb,” I said, standing up and brushing the wet silk of my skirt down. “We look for the person who smells like the explosive’s chemical binder.”

Luca looked up at me, his sharp brows drawn together. “C4 is virtually odorless to humans.”

“To humans, yes,” I replied, reaching down to tap Atlas’s shoulder harness, giving him the working cue I used with my own military-retiree rescue dogs. “C4 uses motor oil and polyisobutylene as a binder. To a dog whose nose has just been flushed, it smells like sweet almonds and rust.”

Luca stood up beside me, his tall frame blocking the glare of the chandelier lights. He looked down at his blind companion, then reached out and held his hand out to me.

“My name is Luca Bellandi,” he said softly, as if we were meeting at a quiet coffee shop instead of standing thirty feet from an explosive device.

“Elena Vance,” I said, taking his hand.

Luca’s eyes flicked with a sudden, sharp recognition at my last name.

“No relation to Julian,” I added quickly, anticipating his thought. “My family built fences in Naperville.”

“Elena,” Luca repeated, pronouncing my name with a low, gravelly weight that made my pulse jump. “If we pull this off, you can ask for whatever you want from me. Money, land, protection. Anything.”

“I don't want your money, Mr. Bellandi,” I said, looking into his dark, fierce eyes. “Just don't let anyone hurt this dog.”