Chapter 3 - Extraction and SteelInside the Calloway Animal Clinic, the surgery light hummed a high-pitched, steady note.
Dr. Sarah Calloway pulled a jagged, six-inch carbon-fiber arrowhead out of the mastiff’s shoulder muscle, dropping it onto the stainless steel tray with a sharp, metallic ring. Maya immediately clamped the bleeding vessel, her hands moving with clockwork precision. She didn't look flustered, but sweat beaded along her hairline.
"He lost a lot of blood," Sarah said, stitching the deep muscle wall with thick, absorbable thread. "And the wound was infected. There’s necrotic tissue around the entry point. But his heart is strong. Stronger than most dogs half his age. What’s his name?"
Nico stood by the sink, scrubbing the dried blood from his hands with scalding water and harsh surgical soap. The crimson foam swirled down the drain, mixing with the grime of Beacon Hill.
"He doesn't have one," Nico said quietly. "My father called him 'Crosetti’s dog.'"
"Well, he’s not a ledger entry anymore," Maya said, patting the mastiff’s massive, fur-covered head as the heavy animal began to stir under the lingering effects of the local anesthetic. "We’ll call him Titan. Look at the size of him—he's built like a brick wall."
Titan let out a deep, rumbling groan, his golden eyes flickering open. They didn't dart around in panic. Instead, they immediately found Nico standing by the sink. The massive dog shifted, trying to lift his bandaged shoulder, but Nico was across the room in a second, kneeling beside the table and pressing a heavy, warm hand against the animal’s broad forehead.
"Easy," Nico murmured, his voice softening in a way that made Maya pause. "Easy, big guy. You're safe here."
Titan let out a long breath, resting his heavy chin directly across Nico’s forearm.
The quiet moment was shattered by a sharp, violent rattling of the front clinic door downstairs.
All three of them froze.
The wind had died down outside, replaced by the ominous, rhythmic crunch of heavy boots packing down the fresh snow on the sidewalk. Then came three heavy, deliberate thuds against the wooden front door—not the frantic pounding of a patient in need, but the calculated, authoritative knock of men who owned the street.
Maya’s face drained of color. She looked from the front stairs to her mother. "Mom... it’s 5:00 AM. No one comes here at 5:00 AM unless—"
"Stay upstairs," Sarah ordered instantly, her voice dropping into a steely command that brook no argument. She pulled a heavy iron-handled drawer open beneath the reception desk, revealing a rusted, vintage Remington 12-gauge shotgun. She checked the chamber with a crisp clack-clack. "Maya, take the back stairs to the basement. There's a service exit leading to the alley."
"I'm not running, Sarah," Maya said, her jaw setting in a stubborn line that was a carbon copy of her mother’s. She reached behind the supply shelf and pulled down a heavy, steel-weighted oxygen wrench. "We’re in Dorchester now, not Beacon Hill. They don't own every street."
Nico stood up slowly from beside the dog. The blood on his shirt was dry and stiff, framing his tall, lean frame like dark armor. He looked toward the staircase, his face hardening into something ancient and absolute.
"They aren't here for you," Nico said coldly, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle and pale old scars. "They're here for me. And they found me faster than I thought."
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"You think you can take them bare-handed?" Maya hissed, stepping toward him with the wrench gripped tight in her fist. "There are four capos in your father's inner circle, Nico. If they're at the door, they aren't coming to talk."
"I don't plan on talking," Nico replied, walking toward the stairs. "I plan on teaching them what happens when you follow a Falcone out of the house."
