I dumped four gallons of soapy water over the most feared dog in Chicago, and everyone on Matteo Moretti’s estate expected me to leave in an ambulance. Instead, Bruno—the 150-pound Cane Corso who had put a professional groomer in the hospital—followed me home. That accident pulled me into the orbit of a man people were afraid to name out loud. Matteo gave orders. I gave his dog choices. Then his jealous socialite friend, my controlling ex-husband, hidden camera footage, threatening photographs, and one terrible decision by Matteo forced me to prove something none of them understood: loving me did not mean owning me.

The peace did not last through the night.

At 1:30 AM, while the gala was winding down in the city, a storm hit Lake Geneva. Rain poured in heavy, blinding sheets, turning the estate grounds into a muddy swamp.

Matteo and I returned in his armored SUV, escorted by a four-car security detail. The tension in the air was thick; Leo had received word that several unmarked vehicles had been spotted near the south perimeter fence forty minutes prior.

“You stay in the main house tonight, Clara,” Matteo said as we pulled up the grand driveway. “Luciano’s men are moving. It’s not safe at the cottage.”

This time, I didn't argument. I could see the genuine concern in Matteo’s eyes.

However, as we stepped into the main foyer, Bruno suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

He didn't look toward the grand staircase. He looked toward the eastern windows facing my small cottage.

He gave a sharp, frantic bark, turning toward the back doors.

“What is it, boy?” I asked, kneeling beside him.

Bruno shoved his snout against the glass door, whining frantically, his claws clicking against the marble.

Leo ran into the foyer, his radio buzzing with static. “Boss! We’ve got a breach at the eastern wall! They cut the power lines to the cottage! They think she’s inside!”

My stomach dropped. “My veterinary notebooks... my mother’s ring. I left them on the kitchen counter!”

“Clara, no!” Matteo yelled, grabbing my wrist as I turned toward the side door. “It’s a trap! They lured us here so they could burn the cottage!”

Before anyone could stop him, Bruno threw his massive body against the side emergency crash bar. The door flew open, and the 150-pound Cane Corso vaulted out into the driving rain, sprinting like a black phantom through the storm toward my cottage.

“BRUNO!” I screamed.

I tore my wrist free from Matteo’s grip and ran out into the storm behind him.

“CLARA! GET BACK HERE!” Matteo roared.

Rain soaked through my emerald dress within seconds, heavy velvet clinging to my legs as I ran through the mud. Flashlights flickered through the dark trees near the eastern ridge.

Ahead, three men in dark tactical gear were pouring gasoline over the wooden porch of my cottage. One of them held a road flare, ready to strike.

Bruno hit the lead man like a runaway freight train.

The intruder screamed as 150 pounds of muscle slammed him into the mud, the flare flying from his hand into the wet grass. The second man raised a silenced pistol, aiming directly at Bruno’s chest.

“NO!” I screamed.

I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.

I grabbed a heavy iron garden spade resting against the tool shed and swung it with every ounce of strength I possessed, smashing the metal flat against the shooter’s wrist.

The gun flew into the dark mud. The shooter yelped in pain, turning toward me with a snarling face. He lunged forward, grabbing my collar, shoving me hard against the wooden wall of the shed.

“You little bitch—” he began.

CRACK.

A gunshot echoed through the thunder.

The man holding me froze, his eyes rolling back, and he collapsed sideways into the mud.

Matteo stood ten feet away in the pouring rain, his heavy black gun raised, smoke curling from the barrel. His face was a mask of pure, murderous vengeance.

Behind him, Leo and four security guards swarmed the remaining intruders, tackling them into the mud and zip-tying their wrists within seconds.

Matteo dropped his gun into his coat pocket and sprinted to me. He grabbed my shoulders, checking my face, his hands trembling violently.

“Are you hurt?! Did he touch you?! Clara, look at me!” Matteo yelled over the thunder.

“I’m fine! I’m okay!” I gasped, rain running down my face. “Where’s Bruno?!”

We turned.

Bruno was lying near the cottage porch, panting heavily, his left shoulder bleeding where a bullet had grazed his skin.

“Bruno!” I dropped to my knees in the mud beside him, pulling off my wet velvet sleeves to press the fabric against his wound.

Bruno let out a quiet whine, resting his big, wet head in my lap.

Matteo knelt beside us, wrapping his massive coat around my shivering shoulders, his arm locking firmly around my waist. He looked at the bleeding dog, then at me—soaked, covered in mud, holding an iron spade, fierce and unbroken.

“You fought them,” Matteo whispered, awe and terror mixed in his voice. “You fought three armed men for a dog and a wooden house.”

“I fought for my home,” I sobbed, tears mixing with the rain on my face. “Nobody takes my home again.”