Chapter 9 - The Beast Unleashed“Stay behind this trunk,” Dante ordered, cocking his pistol with cold, absolute finality.
“No,” I said, grabbing his arm. “They’re not just hunting you. They know about me. If we stay here, we die here.”
Before Dante could argue, a low, ground-shaking vibration rumbled through the wet earth beneath our boots.
It wasn't gunfire.
It was a sound I knew better than my own name.
A deep, ferocious growl that vibrated straight through the mud and into the soles of my shoes.
From the crest of the hill behind us, a pair of glowing eyes cut through the foggy darkness.
Titan.
The heavy security gate at the estate must have been blown open during the chaos, or the dog had simply torn through the iron bars himself. He stood on the ridge like a mythical hound of war, his massive black coat soaked in rain, old scars gleaming under the flashing lights of the burning cars below.
He wasn't running from the chaos. He was hunting the people who started it.
Moretti’s enforcer raised his rifle toward the ridge, aiming straight at the dog.
“No!” I screamed.
Titan launched himself down the embankment like a cannonball.
He hit the enforcer with the force of a freight train, knocking the rifle from his hands and sending him crashing into the mud. The forest erupted into chaotic shouts of terror as the rest of Moretti’s men panicked, firing wildly into the dark at a target they couldn't see or track.
Dante didn't hesitate. Seizing the distraction, he stood up and returned fire, taking down the remaining gunmen one by one with cold, practiced precision.
Within minutes, the woods fell dead silent, save for the crackling of the distant fire and the heavy breathing of the massive pit bull standing triumphantly over Moretti’s chief assassin.
Titan turned his head slowly, locking his intelligent, amber eyes on me.
He didn't growl. He trotted over, pressed his massive, wet head against my knee, and let out a soft, rumbling huff.
Dante lowered his smoking gun, walking over to us through the mud. He looked down at the dog, then up at me, a strange, unprecedented softness breaking through the hardened armor of the city's most feared mafia boss.
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“Well,” Dante said, offering me his hand to help me up from the mud. “It seems you were right about him, Rosie. He’s not a killer.”
“No,” I replied, taking his hand and letting him pull me against his chest as the police sirens began wailing in the distance. “He’s family.”
