"The most powerful mafia boss in Queens brought his deadliest dog to a little girl’s funeral—only for the beast to refuse to leave her coffin and growl at the boss’s most trusted underboss. Everyone thought the dog had lost control, until one phone call exposed a betrayal tied to the child’s death. But the real nightmare began when Bruno pressed his ear back to the coffin… as if something inside was still alive.

Before we could launch our assault on the Brooklyn Navy Yard, however, Victor Harlan struck back.

It was late afternoon when the warning sirens at the Bayside compound began to wail.

I was in the secure medical wing, checking in on little Elena. She was awake now, sitting up in bed, happily eating a bowl of chicken soup while Rosa sat beside her, smiling for the first time in days. Bruno was curled up right beside the bed, acting as her personal footrest.

When the first distant boom echoed across the estate, the soup spoon froze in Elena’s hand.

“What was that?” Rosa asked, her face draining of color.

“Stay here,” I said instantly, my voice calm, though my blood ran cold. I drew my Sig Sauer P226 from its holster and chambered a round. “Daniel, Tony, secure the wing. Do not let anyone through this door.”

I stepped out into the grand hallway just as a second explosion rattled the heavy stained-glass windows overhead.

Smoke was billowing from the main security gate at the front of the estate. Harlan hadn't sent a discreet hit squad this time. He had sent an army—two dozen heavily armed mercenaries in unmarked tactical gear, storming the front lawns with assault rifles and breaching charges.

They thought they could wipe out my entire house in one fell swoop.

They didn't know who they were dealing with.

“Boss!” Tony yelled, sprinting down the corridor toward me, his submachine gun raised. “They breached the outer perimeter! They’ve got rocket-propelled grenades! They’re trying to blow the front doors!”

“Fall back to the second-floor landing!” I ordered, checking my magazine. “Let them come inside. Make every bullet count.”

We fortified the grand staircase with heavy oak furniture, sandbags from the estate’s emergency cache, and unyielding firepower.

CRASH!

The massive oak front doors of the compound blew inward in a shower of splintered wood and flying iron. Through the smoke and haze of flashbang grenades, dark silhouettes poured into the foyer, shouting tactical commands and firing blindly up the stairs.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!

Bullets chewed through the banisters and walls, raining plaster down on our heads.

“Fire!” I roared.

Our syndicate enforcers opened up from the second-floor landing with devastating precision. Three of Harlan’s advance men dropped instantly, tumbling backward down the marble steps.

But more kept coming. They were high on adrenaline, wearing heavy ceramic body armor that absorbed our initial rounds.

Suddenly, a massive black blur streaked past my legs.

“Bruno, no!” I shouted.

Before I could stop him, the one-hundred-and-twenty-pound mastiff vaulted over the second-floor railing, dropping twelve feet straight down into the middle of the foyer below.

The mercenaries froze for a fraction of a second, startled by the massive beast descending upon them like a vengeful spirit.

Bruno hit the floor running. He slammed shoulder-first into the chest of the mercenary carrying the breach charge, knocking the man off his feet and sending the heavy explosive skittering across the marble floor. Before the second guard could raise his rifle, Bruno clamped his jaws around the man’s tactical vest, wrenching him violently backward and slamming him into a concrete pillar with bone-crushing force.

“Cover the dog!” Tony screamed, leaning over the railing and unleashing a sustained burst of suppressing fire that kept the remaining mercenaries pinned behind the living room pillars.

Bruno didn't need much cover. He was a living weapon, forged in seven turf wars and trained to protect this house with his dying breath.

Seeing their advance stalled by a single dog and a wall of lead, the mercenaries panicked. Their squad leader screamed for a retreat toward the smoking doorway.

“Don’t let them reach the courtyard!” I yelled, vaulting over the railing myself, leading Daniel and the remaining men down the stairs in a relentless counter-charge.

We cut down their rearguard before they could make it to the broken front doors. The survivors dropped their weapons and raised their hands, trembling as my men swarmed around them, zip-tying their wrists behind their backs.

The foyer was a wreckage of smoke, shattered glass, and blood.

I walked slowly through the haze, checking the fallen mercenaries to ensure none presented a threat.

Bruno trotted over to me, panting heavily, a small graze on his shoulder leaking a tiny bead of blood. He looked up at me, his tail giving a slow, steady wag, as if asking if he had done a good job.