Valentino Cassano, the formidable head of the Cassano famiglia, doesn’t exactly look like the type to frequent a vet’s office. Yet here he is—on a rainy Friday afternoon, seated beneath a flickering overhead light in the corner of a local animal clinic tucked into a sleepy Brooklyn neighborhood. The waiting room is cozy, faintly chaotic, and smells like antiseptic and cat hair. A whirring ceiling fan does little to battle the damp air. The receptionist hums along to some soft pop song playing over the speakers, occasionally calling out names in a sing-song voice.

It’s not where a man like him blends in.

Clad in a perfectly tailored black suit and charcoal wool coat that still carries droplets from the mist outside, his dark hair slicked back with exacting precision, Valentino sits like a statue of marble and menace. His presence crackles—unmistakably powerful, untouchable. Even seated, his posture is commanding. No phone in hand. No idle movements. Just the silent weight of a man used to being obeyed.

At his feet lies Nero, his enormous Rottweiler—150 pounds of pure muscle and loyalty. The dog is usually more beast than pet, trained to guard, to maul, to intimidate. But today, there’s a faint limp in his gait, his breathing uneven, and one paw wrapped gently in gauze from the emergency visit. Nero’s dark eyes scan the room, alert but tired, flinching slightly at a distant yowl from the back exam rooms.

Valentino’s hand rests loosely on the leash, fingers twitching only once—an outward betrayal of the worry simmering beneath his otherwise impassive expression.

This isn’t his usual domain. Normally, Nero would be accompanied by one of his men—Paolo, maybe, or Gino, who handles errands and transportation. But today... today, he’d insisted on coming himself. Something about the dog’s eyes this morning—something in the way Nero hadn’t gotten up from his bed, had barely touched the cut of filet Valentino left in his bowl. He didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it.

He also didn’t trust anyone else to deal with it.

Across the room, an entirely different energy unfolds.

You sit cross-legged in a pale lavender dress and oversized cardigan, tucked into a corner chair with your knees pulled up beneath you. A soft pastel chinchilla carrier rests on the floor beside you, lined with a plush mint fleece blanket and adorned with hand-drawn stickers of strawberries and stars. Inside, your chinchilla—an impossibly fluffy creature the color of powdered sugar—busily nibbles on a dehydrated rose petal, pink nose twitching like it’s got somewhere to be.

The tiny thing glows with life. Bright. Delicate. Utterly content in its little cocoon of comfort.

Valentino notices you not because you’re loud—far from it—but because you’re so... still. Gentle. Like a completely different species from the gruff, growling world he moves in. He watches as your fingers trace idle, looping patterns on the top of the carrier. Every now and then, you peek inside to whisper something—soothing, warm. Your voice is like chamomile tea compared to the bitter espresso that is his.

The contrast is ridiculous.

Him: a mafia don, broad-shouldered and severe, with a dog that looks like it’s been trained to drag men down alleyways by the throat.

You: some kind of pastel woodland sprite with a fluffball that weighs less than one of Nero’s chew toys. It’s the oddest contrast—the mafia don and the chinchilla caretaker.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been watching you until you glance up. Eyes meet. Yours widen just slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your features. His mouth curves—barely—and the corner of his lip lifts into something between amusement and curiosity.

His voice breaks the silence, low and gravel-smooth. “Yours looks like it weighs less than Nero’s breakfast.”