Every Dog at the Auction Ignored the Mafia Boss’s Deaf Daughter—Until the Last Cage Opened

The library went so cold it felt as though the windows had been shattered.

In less than half a second, Frank Novak’s hand flashed beneath his coat.

The cold, blue-steel barrel of a Glock 19 was pointed directly at the center of Sloan’s forehead before she could take a single breath.

"Don't move," Frank growled, his thumb slipping the safety off with a loud, metallic click.

Mia let out a sharp cry, jumping in front of Sloan, her small hands frantically waving in the air, trying to push Frank’s heavy arm away.

Goliath didn't hesitate.

The moment Frank raised the weapon toward Sloan, the mastiff let out a low, guttural roar that shook the glass in the bookshelves. He lunged forward, his broad chest slamming into Frank’s hip, knocking the two-hundred-pound man sideways into a leather armchair.

"Hold!" Sloan barked in a voice that cut through the room like a whip. She raised her hand in a sharp, flat palm toward Goliath. DOWN!

Goliath froze mid-stride, his massive jaws dripping saliva, his dark eyes fixed on Frank’s throat, his body trembling with violent energy, but he stayed.

Jimmy scrambled backward, reaching for his own gun, but Reed raised a single, heavy hand.

"Stop!" Reed roared.

The room froze.

Mia was sobbing hysterically now, wrapping her arms around Sloan’s waist, her small face buried in Sloan’s coat. Goliath was growling, a low, vibrating rumble that shook the floorboards. Frank was scrambling up from the armchair, his gun still raised, his forehead bleeding where he had struck the carved wooden frame.

Reed walked slowly toward Sloan.

His face was terrifying. Every trace of the grateful father had vanished, replaced by the lethal, calculating predator who ruled the Boston underworld.

"Sloan Hartley," Reed said softly, the name tasting like lead on his tongue. "Dorchester."

Sloan kept her back straight, her hands held open and flat at her sides, despite the iron sight of Frank’s gun hovering five inches from her face.

"Yes," Sloan said, her real voice returning—raw, steady, and sharp.

"You lied to me," Reed said, stepping until he was inches from her. "You walked into my house under a fake name. You brought a wire into my basement."

He reached out, his thick fingers grabbing the lapel of her wool coat. With one violent tug, he ripped the fabric open, exposing the tiny wire and micro-camera taped near her collarbone.

He ripped it off, dropped it onto the floor, and crushed it into dust beneath his leather boot.

"Who are you working for?" Reed asked, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "The Feds? The District Attorney? Vance's crew from New York?"

"I don't give a damn about the Feds, the DA, or Vance!" Sloan spat back, her eyes burning with a fierce, unyielding fury that surprised even Reed. "I came for my dog!"

Reed stared at her. "Your dog?"

"His name isn't Gray! His name is Goliath!" Sloan shouted, pointing at the mastiff, her voice cracking with months of built-up grief and rage. "He was given to me by my father before he died of cancer! Three months ago, some scum working for Tommy Serno cut the lock on my gate in Dorchester and stole him!"

She took a step closer to Reed, ignoring the gun pointed at her head.

"I spent three months looking for him! I tracked him to Serno’s basement! I didn't know who you were, Carbone! I didn't care about your business, your money, or your reputation! I came to buy back the only thing I have left of my father!"

Reed stood motionless.

His eyes shifted from Sloan’s furious face down to his daughter, who was clinging to Sloan’s waist, crying silently, her hands frantically signing over and over again:

Don't hurt her. Don't hurt her. Please.

Then Reed looked at Goliath.

The massive dog was standing directly between Sloan and Frank, his body tense, his eyes locked on his real owner, waiting for the single gesture that would tell him whether to defend her to the death.

"Boss," Frank panted, wiping blood from his temple. "She brought a camera into Serno's layout. If she’s got video of you buying illegal stock down there, the Feds can use it to pull your bail. We gotta take her out to the woods."

Sloan’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she didn't beg. She looked Reed Carbone straight in the eye and waited for his sentence.

Reed slowly lowered his hand into his pocket.

He pulled out a silver cigarette case, snapped it open, and lit a thin black clove cigarette. He blew a trail of gray smoke toward the high ceiling, his mind working behind a face made of stone.

"Frank," Reed said quietly.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Put the gun away."

Frank blinked, incredulous. "Boss! She lied to your face! She put a wire in your layout!"

"I said put the gun away, Frank!" Reed snapped, his eyes flashing with sudden heat.

Frank hesitated for half a second, then lowered the Glock, clicking the safety back on with an annoyed sigh.

Reed turned back to Sloan.

"You have ten seconds to convince me not to put you in the back of a truck, Miss Hartley," Reed said coldly. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't treat you like an enemy."