Chapter 5 - THE WOLF IN THE BOARDROOMThe conference room on the forty-second floor of Caruso Tower smelled of expensive espresso, mahogany polish, and suppressed panic.
Seated around the smoked-glass table were the four remaining capos of the Caruso syndicate: old men with silver hair and tailored suits, men who had survived the turf wars of the nineties and viewed Vincenzo’s recent focus on legitimate real estate as a sign of dangerous softness.
At the head of the table sat Vincenzo.
And standing directly behind his chair, resting its massive, brindle chin on the leather upholstery just inches from Vincenzo’s left shoulder, was Titan.
The capos kept glancing sideways at the dog. None of them dared to speak about it, but the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a switchblade.
"Vincenzo," said Donatello, the oldest capo, tapping a gold-plated fountain pen against the glass table. "Word on the street is that the Red Scorpions are moving their headquarters from the docks to the north district. They’re looking to reclaim Petrov’s old territory. And they’re pissed about one of their ghosts turning up dead in your back alley last week with a crushed windpipe."
"Let them come," Vincenzo said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth or hesitation.
"Let them come?" Donatello scoffed, leaning forward. "Vincenzo, these aren't street punks. These are Spetsnaz-trained mercenaries who don't negotiate. They’ve got a contract out on anyone connected to the seizure of Petrov's vault. And speaking of which... what the hell is that beast doing in a corporate boardroom?"
Titan didn't move. But his single amber eye slowly swiveled around, locking directly onto Donatello with a look of such cold, predatory contempt that the old capo abruptly stopped talking, swallowing hard as a bead of sweat rolled down his wrinkled cheek.
"This animal stays where I put him," Vincenzo said quietly, interlocking his fingers on the glass table. "Because as of last night, he is my new head of security."
Before Donatello could retort, the heavy oak doors of the boardroom swung open with a loud bang.
A young security guard stumbled backward into the room, tripping over his own tactical boots and sprawling across the expensive wool carpet. Behind him, three men in dark civilian jackets walked through the door.
At the front was Special Agent Marcus Vance of the FBI’s Organized Crime Task Force—no relation to the estate vet—wearing a sharp federal suit and a cold, humorless smile.
"Sorry to interrupt the family reunion, gentlemen," Agent Vance said, flashing a silver badge. "Vincenzo Caruso, you and your little men are sitting on federal evidence. We have a warrant to search this entire tower."
The capos immediately stood up, hands sliding toward their waistbands.
"Sit down," Vincenzo commanded, his voice cutting through the room like a razor blade. The capos hesitated, then slowly sank back into their chairs.
May you like
Vincenzo looked up at the federal agent. "A warrant, Agent Vance? For what? My real estate holdings are fully tax-compliant."
"Not for your buildings, Vincenzo," Vance said, walking forward and slapping a thick manila folder down onto the glass table. "For the dog."
