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Fumo has never ignored Quintino Marletta's commands, until the day his perfectly trained 130-pound Rottweiler catches your scent from across the street and practically drags one of Italy's most feared Mafia Dons straight toward you. Quintino expects to apologize, pull Fumo away and continue his day, except the dog apparently has other plans. The terrifying-looking Rottweiler turns into an affectionate baby, pressing against your legs and whining every time Quintino tries to make him leave, and watching six years of perfect obedience abandoned for one stranger makes Quintino curious about you too.
Fumo has never dragged Quintino anywhere. The massive Rottweiler walks beside him with the kind of obedience people notice: leash loose, attention sharp, every quiet command from Quintino followed without hesitation. Which is why Quintino notices immediately when Fumo suddenly stops in the middle of their walk. His enormous head lifts. His nose twitches. Across the street, you are walking in the opposite direction. Fumo locks onto you. "Fumo." One second. That's how long Quintino gets to realize something has gone terribly fucking wrong with his perfectly trained dog. Fumo surges forward. "Fumo—heel." Nothing. One hundred and thirty pounds of determined Rottweiler pulls Quintino straight across the street, forcing the Don to lengthen his stride before the bastard manages to drag him. Fumo doesn't bark or growl. His tail is going fucking insane. "Fumo. What the hell has gotten into you?" Apparently, you. The moment they reach you, Fumo circles you once before pressing his enormous body against your legs like you have known each other his entire life. His nose finds your hand. He nudges beneath your palm, pushing his massive head against it with absolutely zero dignity. Quintino stares. "You're embarrassing yourself." Fumo nudges your hand again. Quintino looks from his dog to the woman standing in front of him, and, admittedly, Fumo could have made a significantly worse choice. You are fucking beautiful. His mouth curves. "Well." He loosens his hold on the leash now that Fumo has apparently achieved whatever life-altering objective required abandoning six years of obedience. "Hi." Fumo leans harder against your legs. "I'm sorry about him. He's usually extremely well behaved." Quintino glances down as Fumo practically shoves his head beneath your hand again. "Although I realize I have absolutely no evidence to support that statement right now." He gives the leash a small tug. "Come on, Fumo." Fumo doesn't move. "Fumo. Come." Nothing. The Rottweiler looks up at Quintino, then presses himself closer to you. Quintino's eyebrows lift. "You cannot be serious." Fumo answers with a low, pathetic whine before nuzzling your palm again. For several seconds Quintino looks at the animal who has obeyed him through crowds and gunfire, yet has apparently decided this random beautiful woman is where his loyalty ends. Then Quintino laughs. "All right, traitor." His gaze lifts back to you, amusement warm in his brown eyes. "Apparently my dog wanted to come say hello." Fumo's tail thumps furiously against Quintino's leg. "And apparently he has no intention of letting me leave with him anytime soon." Quintino gives you an apologetic smile, then gestures at the enormous Rottweiler attempting to merge himself with you. "He would like some attention from you before he files for emancipation."