Chapter 3 - THE GOLDEN BOY'S FALL FROM GRACEThirty miles north of Boston, in a sprawling, glass-and-steel mansion overlooking the rocky coast of Manchester-by-the-Sea, Marcus Reyes poured himself a glass of twenty-year-old single malt scotch.
At twenty-eight, Marcus had the polished, immaculate look of a man who had never done an honest day's labor in his life. Designer suit, perfectly trimmed beard, and a smile that reached his teeth but never his cold, calculating eyes. He was a rising star in real estate development, a darling of the local media, and heavily favored to win the upcoming mayoral race.
Yet, as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the crashing Atlantic waves, his hands trembled slightly as he held the crystal glass.
His phone chimed. A text message from an unknown number.
The dog found her, Marcus. And the wolf is coming home.
Marcus dropped the glass. It shattered against the imported Italian marble floor, splashing amber liquid like blood across the white stone. He stared at the message, color draining entirely from his face.
How? How is she still alive?
He had paid off the nursing home orderlies back in 2012 to wheel her out the back door during a midnight shift. He had arranged for her to be dropped off miles away in the industrial district, stripped of any identification, so she could never interfere with his political campaign. A senile, homeless old woman claiming to be the mother of a rising politician—or worse, the mother of Boston's most ruthless mafia boss—would have destroyed everything Marcus had spent a decade building.
He reached for his desk phone to call his head of security, but before his finger could hit the intercom button, the lights in the entire mansion flickered violently and died.
The smart-home system beeped twice, then went totally dark.
Marcus froze. The heavy oak front doors of his mansion didn't just open—they blew inward with a deafening crash that splintered the reinforced steel hinges.
Out of the smoke and shadows of the grand foyer stepped Daniel Reyes. Behind him stalked Bruno, his slate-colored muscles bunching with lethal intent, a low, guttural growl vibrating through the floorboards.
May you like
Daniel wasn't wearing his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, corded forearms and knuckles scarred from decades of street violence. He walked slowly toward the living room, his eyes fixed dead on Marcus with the terrifying stillness of an executioner.
"Hello, little brother," Daniel said softly, the words echoing off the high ceilings like thunder. "We have some catching up to do."
