Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Marcone Family
By three o'clock the following afternoon, the news had spread through the city’s underground channels like wildfire.
In a luxurious penthouse overlooking the harbor, Don Vincent Marcone sat at a polished mahogany table, listening to a report from his chief enforcer, a scarred man named Eli.
“He paid a million dollars?” Marcone asked, his voice gravelly, aged by forty years of tobacco and bloodshed. “Julian Hart paid a million dollars to a debt-collector’s blind kid?”
“That’s what the bookies in the East Ward are saying, Don Vincent,” Eli reported, leaning over the table. “The kid walked right up to the Shepherd. The animal didn't even snap at her. Hart cleared her brother’s debt and took them both to Crestmont.”
Marcone took a slow pull from his cigar, blue smoke drifting toward the ceiling. “Hart is soft. He’s running a syndicate like it’s a hedge fund. He thinks money and high-tech security can replace iron and blood.”
“The brother—Leo Doyle—owed twelve grand to our street captains,” Eli added. “We were going to break his legs tonight to send a message to the docks.”
Marcone smiled—a yellowed, cruel expression. “We don't need his legs. We need leverage. Hart took those kids into his home. That means he considers them part of his household. If we take the girl, we don't just get our twelve thousand back—we get Julian Hart on his knees in front of the Commission.”
“Hart’s house is a fortress, Don Vincent,” Eli warned. “Retinal scanners, motion sensors, twenty armed guards on rotational shifts.”
“Every fortress has a gatekeeper,” Marcone said calmly, flicking his cigar ash onto a silver tray. “Find out who delivers the meat for that dog.”
Back at the Crestmont estate, the sun was beginning to dip below the tree line, casting long, crimson shadows across the sunroom courtyard.
Dr. Aris, a private veterinarian who usually worked for high-end racehorse owners, stood ten feet away from Cyrus with a steel tray of vaccines and diagnostic tools. His hands were visibly shaking.
Cyrus was sitting on the grass, his shoulder pressed firmly against Maisie’s knee. Every time the veterinarian took a step forward, the dog let out a sharp, rumbling growl that made the doctor freeze.
“He... he needs the broad-spectrum antibiotic, Mr. Hart,” Dr. Aris said nervously, looking toward Julian, who was leaning against the stone archway of the patio with his hands in his pockets. “He has an infected puncture wound on his left flank from his old cage.”
“Then give it to him,” Julian said flatly.
“I can’t get close enough to insert the needle!” the doctor pleaded.
Maisie reached down, taking the dog’s massive head between her hands. She leaned down until her forehead was resting directly against Cyrus’s broad nose.
“Cyrus,” she whispered softly, her thumb rubbing the soft skin above his eyes. “It’s just a little pinch. Like a mosquito. I’ll hold your paw.”
She took the dog’s left front paw in her small hand, wrapping her fingers around his dark claws.
Cyrus let out a long, shuddering sigh. His body relaxed completely, his ears flopping forward as he closed his eyes, placing his entire weight against Maisie’s lap.
“Now,” Maisie told the doctor.
Dr. Aris stepped forward quickly, wiped the flank with alcohol, and slid the needle into the muscle. Cyrus didn't even twitch. He kept his face buried in Maisie’s lap, breathing in the quiet scent of her wool coat.
Julian watched the scene from the archway. Something strange and unbidden tightened in his chest—a feeling he hadn't experienced since he was eight years old, standing in his mother’s garden before his father’s men had come to take him away into the syndicate.
“Roman,” Julian called out softly, not taking his eyes off the girl.
Roman stepped up beside him. “Yeah, Boss?”
“Increase the perimeter patrols tonight,” Julian ordered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low pitch. “The Marcone family knows about the check I wrote yesterday. They’ll think I’ve gone weak.”
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“We’re ready for them, sir,” Roman said.
“No,” Julian corrected, his gray eyes darkening as he watched Maisie laugh as Cyrus licked her cheek. “You’re not ready. Because if a single bullet comes near this house tonight, I won't just kill Marcone’s men. I’ll burn his entire district to the ground.”
