The Boss’s Dog

The suppressed rounds hammered through the lead gunman's chest before he could pull the trigger, collapsing him backward into the shattered doorframe.

Vincent rolled behind a heavy marble pillar as a storm of automatic fire tore into the balustrade, pulverizing century-old plaster into a choking white mist. Chips of stone stung his cheeks, but he remained cold, counting the shots.

*One magazine dry. Reloading.*

Vincent stepped out from behind the pillar, firing two controlled bursts. The second gunman dropped, clutching his throat.

Downstairs, Salvi ducked behind the grand piano, cursing furiously. “Flank him! Where the hell is Diaz? Diaz, get up there and end this!”

Vincent’s blood froze in his veins.

*Diaz?*

Behind him, from the dark hallway leading to the master suite, the sound of slow, heavy footsteps emerged.

Vincent swung his rifle around, but a pistol was already leveled at his forehead.

Marco Diaz stood there, holding a flashlight in his left hand and his service weapon in his right. His tactical vest was pristine. Not a speck of dust. Not a drop of sweat.

“Lower the rifle, Vincent,” Marco said, his voice flat, devoid of the loyalty he had displayed for nearly a decade.

Vincent didn't drop the weapon, though Marco had the drop on him. “Nine years, Marco. I paid your sister’s medical bills. I bought your mother’s house in Naples.”

“And Salvi offered me five million and thirty percent of the offshore Vance portfolio,” Marco replied, unblinking. “You’re slipping, Vincent. You let a six-year-old girl ride your attack dog. You’re getting soft in your thirties. The families are talking. Salvi is expanding, and you’re sitting here playing lord of the manor.”

“You cut the power,” Vincent whispered. “You disabled the gate sensors.”

“I’m the head of security. It was easy,” Marco said with a smirk. “Salvi doesn't want you dead if he can avoid it. Bad for business with the commission. Give him the girl and Bennett, and we walk. You take an early retirement.”

“You know what he’ll do to that child,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a deadly, razor-sharp whisper.

“She’s not my kid,” Marco shrugged. “Now throw the rifle down the stairs, or I put a bullet in your shoulder and drag you down myself.”

Before Vincent could make a move, a low, guttural vibration shook the floorboards behind Marco.

Marco frowned, his eyes darting toward the dark service corridor. “What was that—”

A black and tan streak tore out of the shadows.

Titan didn't bark. He didn't growl. He launched himself through the air, ninety pounds of righteous fury, slamming directly into Marco’s chest.

Marco screamed as his pistol fired wild into the ceiling. The force of the impact drove him backward over the balcony railing.

For a horrifying second, Marco hung in mid-air, clutching at Titan’s fur, before the dog twisted loose and landed gracefully on the stairs. Marco plummeted twenty feet down into the foyer below, landing with a sickening, wet crunch against the marble floor.

Salvi looked down at Marco’s broken body, his eyes wide with horror.

At the top of the stairs stood Arthur Bennett, the tactical shotgun leveled directly at Salvi’s head.

“You killed my wife, Dominic,” Arthur said, his voice trembling with years of buried vengeance.

Salvi raised his hands, his gold-plated revolver trembling. “Arthur... wait. We can deal. The money... Julian had fifty million in Zurich—”

Arthur didn't let him finish.