Consumed By temptation Of Chaos

Chapter; seven

— Alessio Falcone

My tires screeched as I skidded to a stop in front of Growl and Greta's kennel. Before stepping out, I took a picture and sent it to my uncle Remo. Eight calls came in almost instantly. I ignored every one of them.
I climbed onto the green gate, one hand resting on my head as I narrowed my eyes toward the massive warehouse ahead. Growl's eldest son approached with a scowl and opened the gate. My mother grabbed my arm, and we walked inside together.

The place was huge split between an expansive yard and a warehouse where the animals slept. Greta waved from afar and jogged toward us, puppies cradled in her arms.

"It's a beautiful place, Greta," my mother said.

"It smells like a wet dog," I muttered, grimacing. Greta smiled and rolled her eyes.

"I'm so glad you're here. I can't wait for everyone to come to the ballet," she said, placing the puppies into a box lined with blankets. "Maybe you could help me check on the new rescues. Some family vets stopped by, but I trust you and Massimo more. You could start with Roxy she's new and has a broken paw."

She guided me toward a smaller doghouse on the far side of the yard.
The redheaded Vitiello girl sat on the ground with her back to us, whispering softly to the puppy curled in her arms. Her red hair spilled down her back in loose waves. She wore a simple black top and fitted pants effortless, but deliberate.

I crouched beside her.

Her body reacted instantly rigid.

She kept her focus on the beagle in her lap, but the tension was unmistakable in the way her muscles tightened at my presence.

Isabella behaved like prey aware of its predator. Sharp. Alert. Clever enough to disguise fear beneath blunt words and masked resentment.

"You're scaring her," she said at last when the beagle recoiled from my touch, still refusing to lift her eyes.

"Just her?" I asked calmly.

She raised her chin then, blue eyes flashing with distant irritation. She inhaled, shifted the beagle from her arms, and handed her to me.

"Hold her."

I caught her wrist briefly, stopping her movement, then focused on the dog. I examined the paw, wrapped it carefully, and secured a splint in place. The puppy stopped trembling beneath my hands, settling comfortably against me.
Isabella stood and brushed the dirt from her clothes.

"She's fine now," she said, turning on her heel and walking away.

"Nice ass," I called after her.
She froze.

Then she turned, staring at me with wide, defiant eyes caught between confusion and fury.

"Bite me. Don't touch. Don't think too much about it," I recited, quoting the words printed on the pocket of her pants.

She scoffed, shaking her head but her cheekbones betrayed the smile she tried to suppress.

That was when I noticed how expressive she truly was.

Her body spoke before her mouth ever did. Her eyes always carried light fear, irritation, amusement, all impossible to hide. Her fingers drummed against her waist when she was nervous. Her breathing slowed and sharpened when she was irritated. And when she disappeared into her own world, her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the present moment.

I watched her walk onto the porch and sink into the old couch, immediately opening a book like armor. The beagle barked in her absence. I returned the puppy to the small doghouse and let Greta guide me through the rest of the kennel.