Chapter 4 - Midnight IntrusionThe clock on the wall clicked loudly: 2:14 AM.
The streets of Baltimore were dead silent, shrouded in a thick, wet fog rolling in off the Chesapeake Bay. Inside Happy Tails, the only sound was the rhythmic, heavy breathing of Brutus, who had parked his massive body directly across the threshold of the back storage room.
Emily couldn’t sleep. She sat on the edge of the narrow cot in her small loft upstairs, a cup of cold chamomile tea growing ignored on the nightstand.
Her mind raced back to Dante Valente. The newspapers painted him as a ruthless phantom—a ghost who controlled the docks, the politicians, and the black-market imports through pure, unfiltered fear. But down in the shop, standing knee-deep in suds and dog hair, he had looked at Brutus not as property, but as family.
Clink.
Emily froze.
It wasn't the wind. It was the distinct, metallic scrape of a master key turning slowly in the back deadbolt.
Her breath caught in her throat. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet making zero sound against the wooden floorboards overlooking the shop floor below.
Downstairs, the shadows shifted. Two figures clad in black tactical gear slipped through the back door, moving with military precision. They didn't turn on lights. Their infrared goggles glowed faintly in the dark.
“The boss said the drive was on the desk,” a low whisper hissed through the gloom.
“Check the grooming counter. If the girl saw anything, she’s dead anyway.”
Emily’s hand flew to her mouth. Her phone was upstairs on the charger—completely out of reach. She couldn't call the police; by the time they arrived from three precincts over, she would be floating in the harbor alongside the files.
Suddenly, the darkness beneath her erupted.
A terrifying, guttural roar echoed off the tiled walls—a sound so violent it rattled the shampoo bottles on the shelves.
Brutus didn't bark. Cane Corsos don't waste time barking when they mean business. He charged.
The first intruder fired a suppressed pistol, the bullet shattering a row of ceramic ceramic bowls. But Brutus was already a massive, living projectile of muscle and rage. He slammed into the lead operative, sending the man flying backward into a tall metal rack of grooming supplies. Shampoos, shears, and towels rained down in a deafening clatter.
The second intruder whipped his weapon around toward the dark corner where the dog had lunged.
Click.
The gun jammed.
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Before the man could clear the slide, a heavy, charcoal-suited arm reached out from the pitch-black storage hallway. A gloved hand locked around the intruder’s windpipe with bone-crushing force, lifting him two feet off the floor effortlessly.
“You’re trespassing,” Dante Valente’s voice cut through the dark like a razor blade.
