THE MAFIA PATRIARCH’S BETROTHED COMMANDED ME TO DISPOSE OF HIS AGING CANINE BEFORE THEIR CELEBRATORY FEAST—YET WHEN I CARRIED THE CREATURE STRAIGHT INTO THE BANQUET HALL, THE CITY’S MOST RUTHLESS UNDERWORLD LEADER COLLAPSED TO HIS KNEES.

Enzo Falcone stepped onto the lower landing of the grand staircase, illuminated by the flashing red emergency lights and the strobe of distant muzzle flashes.

He didn't look like a man leading a blood-soaked coup. He wore an immaculate charcoal wool coat over his tuxedo, his silver hair neatly combed back, a heavy silver-plated Colt .45 resting loosely in his right hand. Flanking him were four heavily armed mercenaries, their assault rifles raised, sweeping the upper balcony where Luca, Bruno, and I crouched behind the shattered remnants of the marble balustrade.

“You’ve made a mess of Antonio’s house, Enzo,” Luca called down, his voice steady, devoid of fear, echoing with chilling authority through the smoky air of the foyer.

Enzo let out a soft, theatrical chuckle, shaking his head with mock sadness.

“Antonio built this house on blood and discipline, Luca,” Enzo replied, taking a slow step up the marble stairs. “You turned it into a sanctuary for sentimentality. Refusing the fentanyl pipelines from Mexico? Handing over twenty percent of the docks to legitimate shipping unions? You forgot what made the Morettis kings in this city. You’ve grown soft, boy.”

“My father had honor,” Luca spat, shifting his weight slightly, signaling to me with two fingers behind his back to crawl toward the corridor on our left. “You sold out to Salvatore Romano for scraps from his table. You’re nothing but a dog begging for bones.”

Enzo’s pleasant demeanor vanished, replaced by a mask of cold, predatory rage.

“Your father was a hypocrite,” Enzo snapped. “He hid the ledger because he knew half the city council was on our payroll, and he didn't have the stomach to use the leverage! But I will. Salvatore and I will own every judge, every precinct, and every shipping container between here and Toronto.”

Enzo raised his pistol, pointing it directly at the upper gallery.

“Kill him,” Enzo ordered his men. “And bring me that damn hound’s neck before he bleeds out.”

The mercenaries opened fire.

A hail of high-caliber rounds tore into the marble pillars above us, sending chunks of stone and blinding dust cascading down like shrapnel. Luca shoved me flat against the hardwood floor of the corridor just as a bullet gouged a three-inch trench into the wall where my head had been.

Luca returned fire with surgical precision. Two shots rang out from his Glock; one of the mercenaries tumbled backward down the staircase, his rifle clattering against the marble steps.

Suddenly, a loud, ear-splitting crash echoed from the eastern wing—followed by the roar of a combat shotgun.

“Boss!” Dante’s voice roared through the smoke.

From the second-floor library doors, Dante and three loyal Moretti enforcers emerged, laying down a devastating field of crossfire that caught Enzo’s men in a deadly pincer. The foyer erupted into absolute bedlam. Gunfire cracked like thunderclaps in the enclosed space, the smell of gunpowder so thick it tasted like sulfur on my tongue.

“Move! Now!” Luca yelled, hauling me to my feet by my elbow.

We sprinted down the smoke-filled upper corridor toward the rear of the estate. Bruno ran beside us, his limping gait forgotten under the surge of pure adrenaline.

Behind us, Enzo roared in fury as his men were pinned down by Dante’s counter-assault. But as we turned the corner toward the private study, the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung wide open.

Another mercenary stepped out, leveling a submachine gun straight at Luca’s chest.

There was no time to raise a weapon. There was no time to dive.

In that split second, Bruno moved.

With a ferocious, guttural roar that seemed to summon the strength of his youth, the twelve-year-old German shepherd launched himself through the air. Seventy pounds of muscle, teeth, and raw loyalty collided with the mercenary’s chest, knocking the barrel upward just as the weapon discharged.

A burst of automatic fire chewed through the antique plaster ceiling, raining down dry dust.

The gunman crashed hard against the floorboards, screaming as Bruno’s jaws clamped onto his forearm with bone-crushing force.

Luca didn't waste a heartbeat. He closed the distance in two strides, his sidearm cracking once. The mercenary went limp.

“Bruno!” I cried, dropping to my knees beside the dog.

Bruno release his grip, stumbling slightly, his sides heaving like bellows. A deep graze from a bullet had torn across his left flank, matting his silver-and-black fur with crimson. But the old dog simply leaned against my shoulder, licking my face once with a hot, rough tongue, as if reassuring me that he was still standing guard.

Luca knelt beside us, his eyes wide as he inspected the dog's wound. “He’s grazed. The bullet didn't hit the bone.” He looked at Bruno, his hand resting firmly on the animal’s scarred head, his voice cracking with emotion. “Good boy. Good boy, old friend.”

Suddenly, the crack of a heavy caliber round shattered the silence behind us.

The plaster inches above Luca’s head exploded.

Luca pivoted instantly, shoving Bruno and me behind an antique mahogany armoire as Enzo Falcone appeared at the end of the hallway, his silver Colt smoking in his hand. His tailored coat was torn, blood dripping from a gash on his temple where Dante’s shrapnel had clipped him, his eyes completely unhinged.

“End of the line, Luca!” Enzo yelled, raising his weapon with both hands. “The Romanos have the gates! Your men are dropping like flies! It’s over!”

Luca stood up slowly, stepping out from behind the armoire. His sidearm was empty, the slide locked back. He dropped the useless weapon to the floor with a hollow plastic clatter.

Enzo’s mouth twisted into a triumphant, grotesque sneer. “Nothing left to say, boy?”

“Just one thing,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

Enzo frowned, his finger tightening on the trigger. “What?”

“You should have checked who was behind you,” Luca murmured.

Before Enzo could register the words, the service elevator doors directly behind him hissed open.

Julian Moretti—pale as a corpse, his shredded linen shirt hanging from his bruised frame, clutching Antonio Moretti’s vintage double-barreled shotgun from the armory wall—stepped out into the hallway.

“Hey, Enzo,” Julian croaked.

Enzo’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror as he tried to spin around.

Julian pulled both triggers simultaneously.

The deafening roar of the heavy gauge blast tore through the corridor, throwing Enzo Falcone backward through the air like a ragdoll. He crashed against the far wall, collapsing into a heap on the floorboards, his silver pistol clattering uselessly across the blood-slicked hardwood.

The hallway fell dead silent.

The smoke drifted lazily in the crimson emergency lights. Julian stood swaying on his feet, the empty shotgun slipping from his trembling fingers, before collapsing against the elevator frame, panting for breath.

Luca rushed forward, catching his brother before he hit the floor.

“Julian!”