Chapter 3 - THE WOLF AND THE BEARTime seemed to fracture into slow motion.
The man in the tactical mask raised his silenced weapon, the black barrel pointing directly at Mara’s chest to clear her out of the line of fire. "Move aside, lady. You're out of your depth."
Mara didn't move. Every muscle in her body locked. She thought of her husband Caleb, of the cowardice she had felt the night the world broke, and a fierce, reckless rage boiled up from the pit of her stomach. She braced herself to leap.
She didn't need to.
With a sound like thunder breaking inside a cave, Bear lunged.
The massive black dog didn't bark; he exploded. He caught the lead gunman by the tactical vest, his jaws clamping down with bone-crushing force. The man shrieked as he was thrown backward against the wooden wall, his weapon flying from his hands and skidding across the floorboards.
"Shoot the dog! Shoot the damn dog!" the pinned man roared.
The second gunman whipped his submachine gun toward Bear, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Clack.
The gun clicked empty. A split second later, a heavy iron skillet—wielded with the desperate fury of a woman defending her home—smashed against the side of the gunman's helmet with a hollow, ringing crash. The man staggered, disoriented, clutching his head.
Before he could recover, Viktor Vance moved.
Paralyzed from the waist down, the mafia boss used his upper body strength with terrifying efficiency. He hooked his arm around the table leg, pivoting his torso, and drove his heavy metal cane—which Mara had left leaning against the counter—directly into the back of the gunman’s knee.
With a sharp crack of cartilage, the second operative collapsed, screaming in agony.
Viktor didn't hesitate. He scrambled across the floor like a striking panther, grabbing the fallen gunman's pistol with ruthless familiarity, pressing the barrel directly beneath the man's chin.
The room fell dead silent, save for the whistling wind and Bear’s heavy, rhythmic panting as he stood over the first gunman, his teeth bared inches from the man's throat.
"Tell me, Marcus," Viktor whispered, his voice dripping with venom as he looked down at the whimpering assassin. "Did my brother send you, or did you think you could take the throne all by yourself?"
The gunman beneath Viktor’s gun swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "It was... it was Dante. He runs everything now, boss. We just followed orders."
Viktor’s expression didn't soften by a fraction of a millimeter. "Dante has always been impatient."
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Without another word, Viktor pressed the trigger. The silenced pop was muffled, but the finality of it echoed through the cabin like a death knell.
Mara stood frozen against the counter, her hands stained with soot and adrenaline, staring down at the man she had pulled from the snow. He wasn't just a victim. He was a executioner. And she had just invited him into her home.
