Chapter 6 - The Visitor from the South SideA man stepped out of the matte-black SUV. He was shorter than Moretti, wearing a cheap nylon windbreaker that looked completely out of place among the million-dollar pines, and he had a scarred right cheek that pulled his mouth into a permanent, cynical sneer.
"Dante," the man called out, walking forward with his hands tucked loosely into his jacket pockets. "I hear you've been spending your afternoons playing dog catcher with some civilian."
Moretti stepped forward, placing himself squarely between the visitor and the house, his coat parting slightly to reveal the heavy custom holster beneath his left arm. "You're off your turf, Sal. Way off."
"We had an agreement on the dock distribution, and your phones have been going straight to voicemail," Sal said, stopping twenty paces away. His eyes darted past Moretti, landing directly on me and the massive brindle Cane Corso standing beside me. "What’s this? You brought a pet trainer to your funeral?"
Titan let out a low, vibrating growl—the kind of sound that doesn't come from the throat, but from the chest cavity, heavy enough to rattle the loose gravel on the ground.
I felt the tension spike down the leather leash. Sal’s hand twitched inside his windbreaker pocket.
"Don't do it," I said clearly, my voice ringing out across the quiet driveway.
Sal glanced at me, laughing a short, ugly sound. "Shut up, lady. This is big boy—"
Before Sal could finish his sentence, Moretti made a single, sharp hand gesture—not a command to attack, but a motion of absolute dismissal. And then he looked down at the dog beside me.
"Titan," Moretti said. Not a shout. Just a conversational, chillingly clear word. "Heel."
It wasn't a command to bite. It was a command of absolute, unshakeable control.
Titan stopped growling instantly. His body relaxed from a coiled spring back into a fluid, balanced stance. He stepped two inches closer to my leg, his amber eyes locked not on Sal, but on Moretti’s face, waiting for the real order.
Sal froze, his hand half-withdrawn from his jacket, realizing two things at once: Dante Moretti wasn't distracted, and the terrifying one-hundred-and-forty-pound war dog standing twenty feet away wasn't a wild animal—it was a loaded weapon with the safety catch held by a man who didn't blink.
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"You have five minutes to turn that junker around and get back off my property, Sal," Moretti said, his voice as cold and flat as a tombstone. "And if you ever show up here while I'm having a lesson with my trainer again... you won't need a car to leave."
Sal swallowed hard, his eyes darting from Moretti’s slate stare to Titan’s unblinking amber gaze. Without another word, he backed away, climbed back into the SUV, and slammed the door. The tires squealed on the gravel as the vehicle spun around and tore back down the drive.
