Chapter 4 - The Syndicate's WarningThe intruder was dragged down into the subterranean basement before the police could even be considered—because in Vincent Moretti's world, calling the cops was a sign of weakness, and weakness was a death sentence.
I sat in the massive, high-tech security office while Vincent stood over a man tied securely to a reinforced steel chair. The man wore all black with no identification tags, but the distinctive tattoo on the back of his neck—a coiled viper wrapped around a dagger—said everything.
"The Ivanov Bratva," Vincent muttered, his voice dropping an octave into a tone so cold it felt like liquid nitrogen. He pulled a heavy silver cigar cutter from his pocket, though he didn't light a cigar. "They think because I pulled back from the docks, I've gone soft."
The bound man spat a glob of blood onto the concrete floor, smiling through broken teeth. "You think a mutt from a shelter can protect your little girl, Moretti? Next time, it won't be a warning. The syndicate wants the throne back. And they know where the weakness is."
Vincent didn't blink. He didn't yell. He simply raised the heavy metal butt of his pistol and brought it down across the man's jaw with sickening precision. The man slumped forward, unconscious.
"Clean this up," Vincent told his head of security without looking back, stepping out of the interrogation room.
I followed him out into the dimly lit hallway, my hands still shaking from the gunshot. "A warning? They broke into your house, Vincent! They tried to kill—they could have killed Lily!"
"They came to test the perimeter," Vincent said, stopping abruptly and turning to face me. The overhead fluorescent light cast harsh shadows across his scarred knuckles. "They wanted to see if the rumors about me losing my edge were true."
"And instead, they found a killer dog and a terrified shelter worker," I snapped, my adrenaline finally converting into white-hot anger. "Why bring us here into the middle of a war zone? You used us as bait!"
Vincent stepped closer, towering over me. His gray eyes were fierce, burning with a desperate, paternal fury that brooked no argument. "I didn't use anyone. The moment Lily looked at that animal through the shelter window, she chose him. And in this house, nobody denies my daughter anything. Not even me."
He turned and walked down the hall toward Lily’s suite. I stood there in the corridor, realizing with a sinking feeling in my stomach that there was no turning back. I wasn't just a dog handler anymore. I was an accessory to a mafia war.
When I pushed open the door to Lily’s room, she was sitting up in bed, wide awake. Rusty was lying across the foot of her mattress, resting his massive head between his paws. As I walked in, Lily slowly lifted her small hand and pointed a single finger toward the bedside table.
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Resting right beside her reading lamp was something that made my blood run cold: a small, carved wooden viper.
They hadn't just tested the perimeter. They had left a calling card inside her bedroom while we were downstairs.
