"The most powerful mafia boss in Queens brought his deadliest dog to a little girl’s funeral—only for the beast to refuse to leave her coffin and growl at the boss’s most trusted underboss. Everyone thought the dog had lost control, until one phone call exposed a betrayal tied to the child’s death. But the real nightmare began when Bruno pressed his ear back to the coffin… as if something inside was still alive.

The rain in Queens fell in heavy, iron-gray sheets, washing the grime of the city into the storm drains.

By 1:00 AM, the old brick meatpacking plant at Pier 19 was surrounded. Eight black armored SUVs idling in the dark alleyways, their headlights off, their engines humming like angry hornets. Thirty of my best men—seasoned enforcers who had bled for the Salvatore family for decades—stood in the freezing downpour, checking their submachine guns and tactical vests.

I stood at the head of the formation, wearing my dark leather coat, holding Bruno’s heavy leather leash. The dog didn't make a sound. His ears were pinned back, his body coiled like a steel spring. He smelled the blood and gunpowder in the air, and he knew what was coming.

"Boss," Tony whispered, sliding up beside me with a thermal imaging tablet. "There are at least fifteen armed guards inside the main floor. Thermal shows two men upstairs in the manager's office. One of them matches Marco's frame."

"And Harlan?"

"Harlan’s black Bentley is parked in the loading bay. He’s in there, Boss. He came to collect Marco and clean up the mess."

I looked at my watch. Elena had four hours before the toxin irreparably destroyed her nervous system.

"No negotiations," I said, my voice cutting through the sound of the rain. "No prisoners. Except Marco and Harlan. I want them breathing when I take them."

"Understood," Tony said, turning to signal the breaching team.

"Break the door," I ordered.

A heavy steel breaching charge exploded against the side entrance of the slaughterhouse with a deafening BOOM. The iron door blasted off its hinges, flying inward into the dark interior.

Before the smoke could even clear, I unclipped Bruno’s leash.

"Find them, Bruno," I growled.

The cane corso launched forward like a black missile, disappearing into the dark, smoke-filled slaughterhouse. A second later, the dark building erupted into a chaotic hell of gunfire, screaming men, and the terrifying, demonic roars of a hundred-and-twenty-pound war dog.

My men surged through the breach behind Bruno, weapons firing in synchronized, lethal rhythm.

I walked through the shattered entrance slowly, my Sig Sauer raised.

The meatpacking plant was a nightmare of rusted iron, hanging meat hooks, and plastic sheeting dripping with old blood. Harlan’s mercenaries were caught completely off guard. Two guards lay bleeding on the concrete floor, their tactical vests torn to shreds by Bruno’s jaws. Further down the central aisle, my soldiers were pushing forward, wiping out Harlan’s perimeter guards with relentless, terrifying precision.

A mercenary stepped out from behind a hanging beef carcass, raising an AK-47 toward my head.

I didn't even flinch. I fired three rounds into his chest before he could pull the trigger. He dropped into the bloody sawdust at my feet.

Above us, on the rusted iron catwalk leading to the second-floor office, a door slammed open.

"Salvatore!" a voice bellowed over the sound of gunfire.

I looked up. Victor Harlan stood on the catwalk, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat now splattered with soot. Beside him, cowering like a beaten street rat, was Marco Ricci. Harlan was holding a silver-plated revolver, his face twisted in a mixture of rage and disbelief.

"You're insane, Dominic!" Harlan screamed down at me. "You brought a full war into my district for a restaurant owner's bastard kid?"

"She has a name, Victor," I called up, my voice echoing off the high tin ceiling. "Her name is Elena. And you buried her alive."

Harlan sneered, pointing his gun down at me. "She was collateral damage! Your underboss sold you out six months ago! He gave me your supply lines, your safehouses, everything! You're an old dog, Dominic! Your time in Queens is finished!"

"Maybe," I said softly, racking the slide of my pistol. "But you won't live to see the end of it."

Harlan raised his arm to shoot, but before his finger could squeeze the trigger, a dark shadow leaped from the top of a stacked wooden crate beside the catwalk.

It was Bruno.

The massive dog cleared a six-foot gap in mid-air, his heavy jaws snapping shut around Harlan’s gun hand.

Harlan let out a blood-curdling scream as the silver revolver was bitten clean out of his grip, clattering down to the concrete floor below. The force of Bruno’s weight hit Harlan like a freight train, slamming the mob boss against the rusted iron railing of the catwalk.

Marco shrieked in terror and tried to run back into the office, but Tony was already waiting at the top of the stairs, a heavy shotgun leveled at Marco’s face.

"Move an inch, Marco," Tony growled, "and I'll paint this wall with what little brains you have left."

I walked slowly up the iron stairs, the heavy thud of my boots echoing through the dying sounds of the battle below.

The slaughterhouse was secured. Harlan’s men were dead or captured.

I reached the catwalk. Harlan was lying on his back, clutching his shredded, bleeding wrist, gasping for air. Bruno stood over him, his heavy paws planted on Harlan’s chest, his dripping jaws hovering two inches from the man’s throat.