Adrian had been called down to the secure basement vault for an emergency meeting with his underbosses regarding a hostile takeover attempt by the rival O’Rourke syndicate out of South Boston. The study was quiet, lit only by the warm, amber glow of the desk lamp and the flickering flames of the fireplace.

Sophia had finally fallen asleep, curled up soundly on the velvet sofa with her head pillowed against Titan’s massive, muscular flank. The dog lay completely motionless, breathing in deep, steady rhythms, his ears twitching occasionally at the sound of the rain lashing against the tall glass windows.

I sat at the small side table, quietly organizing my cleaning supplies and double-checking my weekly timesheet, trying to ignore the creeping sense of unease that had settled into my stomach over the past hour.

The mansion felt too quiet.

Usually, even during quiet hours, there was a steady, rhythmic hum of security patrols moving through the corridors—heavy boots clicking on marble, muffled voices over encrypted radio earpieces, the low murmur of guards stationed at every major junction.

Tonight, the hallways were dead silent.

Too silent.

I stood up slowly, setting my clipboard down on the table. My breath hitched in my throat as I walked toward the heavy double doors of the study, reaching out to turn the brass handle.

The door didn't budge.

It was locked from the outside.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. Someone had locked us in.

Before I could turn around, the sharp, deafening crack of a silenced gunshot echoed from somewhere down the grand hallway, followed immediately by the dull, heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.

Sophia stirred on the sofa, letting out a soft whimper, burying her face deeper into Titan’s coat.

“Stay down,” a deep, gravelly voice commanded from the shadows near the doorway.

I gasped, spinning around.

Adrian Moretti stood just inside the private connecting washroom door, his dark suit jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. In his right hand, he held a heavy Sig Nexter P226 pistol, the black metal gleaming menacingly in the amber light. His face was carved from absolute ice, his gray eyes burning with cold, focused fury.

“Mr. Moretti—what’s happening?” I whispered, my voice trembling uncontrollably.

“We have uninvited guests,” Adrian replied, his voice terrifyingly calm as he checked the magazine release on his weapon with a practiced, mechanical click. “Dante’s second-in-command took a bribe from the O’Rourke syndicate. They bypassed the perimeter sensors through the service tunnel.”

“The service tunnel?” My knees felt like water. “How many?”

“At least six armed professionals,” Adrian said, stepping smoothly past me and positioning himself beside the heavy oak door. He looked down at Sophia, who was beginning to wake up, rubbing her sleepy eyes with the back of her small hand.

“Titan,” Adrian commanded softly.

The massive Cane Corso was on his feet in a fraction of a second, abandoning his relaxed posture. Every muscle in his 130-pound frame went rigid. He didn't bark; he simply dropped his head, bared his teeth in a silent, murderous snarl, and planted himself squarely in front of the sofa where my daughter sat.

“Mommy?” Sophia whimpered, sitting up and looking around the dark room in confusion. “What’s that loud noise?”

“Hush, sweetheart,” I rushed forward, dropping to my knees and pulling her tightly against my chest, shielding her head with my hands. “Mommy’s right here. Close your eyes and don't look.”

Bang! Bang!

Two rapid-fire gunshots struck the heavy oak panels of the study’s main double doors. Wood splinters exploded inward, raining down across the Persian rug like confetti. A heavy boot kicked violently against the center seam, cracking the reinforced brass lock.

Adrian didn't flinch. He raised his Sig Nexter, aligning the barrel with absolute, terrifying precision.

“If any of you take one step through that door,” Adrian’s voice rang out, carrying a lethal authority that made the very walls vibrate, “you will meet your maker before your foot hits the floor.”

A harsh, grating laugh echoed from the hallway outside.

“Give it up, Adrian!” shouted a harsh, unfamiliar voice—Marcus O’Rourke, the ruthless enforcer of the South Boston syndicate. “Your security is compromised! Dante is bleeding out in the east foyer, and your vault codes are being downloaded right now! Hand over the girl and the accountant, and maybe we’ll let you crawl out of here with your life!”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits of pure, unadulterated ice.

“You want my house?” Adrian whispered, his voice dropping an octave into a register of such profound violence that even I felt my blood run cold. “You want my territory?”

He flicked his left hand toward the door.

“Titan. Take them.”

With a roar that sounded less like a dog and more like a starving lion, the 130-pound Cane Corso launched his massive body forward.