The Boss’s Dog

“Marco!” Vincent shouted into his radio.

Static hissed through the speaker.

“Marco, report!”

“—cut the main transformers at the road!” Marco’s voice tore through the interference, breathless and ragged. “Boss, they rammed the outer gate with a dump truck! Four SUVs entering the courtyard! They’re heavily armed—body armor, automatic rifles! We can’t hold the lower terrace!”

Gunfire erupted outside, the sharp, stuttering rattle of automatic weapons echoing off the stone walls of the mansion.

Lily bolted upright on the couch, screaming. Titan scrambled to his feet instantly, unleashing a thunderous, cavernous bark that reverberated through the dark room.

“Lily, stay down!” Arthur yelled, dropping to his knees and throwing his body over the couch.

Vincent didn't panic. The cold, calculating instinct that had kept him alive through two decades of mob warfare took over. He reached beneath the library desk and pulled open a hidden steel compartment, tossing Arthur a semi-automatic tactical shotgun and four spare magazines.

“Can you shoot that with that broken shoulder?” Vincent asked, his eyes flinty in the faint lightning glow.

“I can shoot it with my teeth if I have to,” Arthur snarled, racking the slide with brutal efficiency.

“Good. Take Lily into the panic room behind the wine cellar. There’s an escape tunnel leading toward the boat slip on the sound.”

“What about you?” Arthur asked.

“This is my home,” Vincent said quietly, checking the red-dot optic on his assault rifle. “Nobody walks through my gates uninvited and walks back out.”

Vincent turned to Titan. “Titan. *Bleib.* Guard her.”

Titan looked at Vincent, his chest heaving, then stepped back onto the sofa, pressing his heavy body directly against Lily. The little girl wrapped her arms around the dog's thick neck, burying her face in his fur.

“Go!” Vincent ordered.

Arthur scooped Lily into his left arm, holding the shotgun low with his right. Titan moved like a shadow alongside them, his teeth bared, tail rigid.

Vincent moved toward the sweeping grand staircase that overlooked the main foyer.

Below, the massive oak front doors splintered inward with the deafening roar of a breaching charge. Dust, smoke, and shards of wood exploded into the foyer.

Three men in tactical gear poured through the smoke, their weapon lights cutting through the haze. Behind them walked a man in a long charcoal coat, completely unbothered by the gunfire.

Dominic Salvi.

Salvi was fifty, stocky, with slicked-back gray hair and dead, reptilian eyes. He held a gold-plated revolver casually in his right hand.

“Rourke!” Salvi shouted over the dying echo of the blast, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “I know you’re up there, Vincent! Don't make this messy! I don't care about your shipping lanes! I don't even care about your pride! Hand over Bennett and the girl, and we walk away! You keep your house!”

Vincent leaned over the carved marble balustrade, raising his rifle.

“You broke my front door, Dominic.”

Salvi laughed, an ugly, grating sound. “Doors can be replaced, kid. Bloodlines can’t. Arthur took something that belongs to me. A key. And the little brat knows where it is.”

“She’s six years old, you sick bastard,” Vincent said coldly.

“She’s a loose end,” Salvi snapped, his smile vanishing. “Kill him! Sweep the house!”