I Bathed the Mafia Boss’s Killer Pit Bull, and He Told Me I Belonged to Him Before Sunrise

Outside, the rain beat a relentless rhythm against the bulletproof glass. Titan sat up beside me, his ears pinned back, his nostrils flaring as he caught the faint scents of ocean salt, diesel fuel, and gunpowder hanging in the heavy night air.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

Suddenly, the night shattered.

A bright flash illuminated the dark windows, followed a second later by the deep, thunderous boom of an explosion near the water’s edge. The vehicle shook from the shockwave.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Automatic gunfire erupted inside Warehouse 7. Muzzle flashes flickered through the frosted glass windows of the building like terrifying bursts of lightning.

Matteo, who was standing guard outside my door, suddenly yelled into his radio, drawing his firearm as two dark figures emerged from between the shipping containers to our left.

“Rosie, stay down!” Matteo yelled through the glass just before gunfire shattered the quiet outside.

Matteo engaged the attackers, trading shots as he retreated toward the corner of the warehouse to flank them. But he was lured away from the vehicle—exactly as the attackers intended.

A heavy metal object slammed against the driver’s side window.

I gasped, pulling Titan back as the reinforced door was forcibly unlocked from the outside using an electronic bypass key. The door swung open, revealing a man clad in black tactical gear, his face covered by a balaclava.

In his hand was a heavy hunting knife—the exact same blade with a four-inch serrated edge that had cut Titan the night before.

“Out of the car, girl,” the man growled, reaching in to grab my jacket. “Marco wants you dead before Dante makes it back to the docks.”

Before his fingers could touch my collar, Titan reacted.

The pit bull didn't bark. He didn't growl. He launched his hundred-and-ten-pound frame straight across my lap like a bullet.

Titan’s massive jaws clamped down onto the attacker’s right forearm. The sound of crushing bone and tearing fabric echoed inside the cab as the man let out a blood-curdling scream, dropping the knife onto the floorboards.

Titan dragged the attacker out of the vehicle, slamming him onto the wet asphalt. The man hit his head against the curb, instantly going limp.

“Titan, heel!” I shouted, using the palm-down signal.

The dog immediately released his grip, stepping back to guard the open door of the SUV, his chest heaving, his mouth covered in dark blood, but his eyes focused entirely on protecting me.

I reached down, snatched the dropped tactical knife from the floor, and stepped out into the pouring rain.

“We have to help Dante,” I whispered to Titan.

Keeping low between the massive shipping containers, I moved toward the side entrance of Warehouse 7. Titan trotted beside me, his Kevlar vest protecting his healing wound, his body low to the ground like a panther stalking prey.

We slipped through a broken side door into the cavernous interior of the warehouse.

The building was filled with smoke, the smell of cordite, and the groans of injured men. Dozens of shipping crates lay scattered across the floor, destroyed by the initial blast.

At the center of the warehouse, beneath the hanging industrial lights, stood Dante.

He was bleeding from a shallow cut on his temple, but his posture remained unbroken. His gun was empty, dropped at his feet. Surrounding him were four of Marco’s remaining mercenaries, all holding automatic rifles pointed directly at Dante’s chest.

Marco Vance stood five feet away, holding a silver briefcase in one hand and a high-caliber pistol in the other. His face was twisted in a triumphant, crazed sneer.

“It’s over, Dante!” Marco shouted over the sound of the rain hammering the corrugated metal roof. “The New York boys are dead, your loyal captains are pinned down at the main gate, and your empire belongs to me! I’m going to shoot you in the head, burn this warehouse to the ground, and tell the board you died in a tragic syndicate war!”

Dante didn't look afraid. He wiped the blood from his eyes, staring at Marco with pure, unadulterated contempt.

“You always were an idiot, Marco,” Dante said softly. “You think taking an empire is about money and guns. It’s not. It’s about loyalty. And you don't have a single person in this room who wouldn't sell you out for a nickel.”

“Shut up!” Marco screamed, raising his pistol to target Dante’s head. “Say goodbye, Dante!”

“TITAN, ATTACK!” I screamed from the shadows, using my good ear to project my voice across the open steel rafters.

I gave the hand signal for a full strike.

Titan sprinted across the concrete floor like a demon unchained.

Before Marco’s mercenaries could react to the sound, Titan leaped off a wooden pallet, slamming his massive chest into the mercenary closest to Marco. The soldier hit the ground hard, his rifle flying across the floor.

Dante didn't waste a single millisecond.

Taking advantage of the split-second distraction, Dante lunged forward, grabbing the barrel of Marco’s pistol, twisting his wrist until the bone popped, and slamming his knee directly into Marco’s ribs.

Marco shrieked in pain, dropping the gun. Dante caught the weapon mid-air, spun around, and fired three precise shots.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The remaining three mercenaries dropped to the floor, instantly neutralized.

Silence descended upon the warehouse, broken only by the crackle of burning debris and the heavy breathing of the survivors.

Marco lay on his back, clutching his broken wrist, sobbing hysterically as he stared up at Dante.

Dante stood over him, holding the pistol down at Marco’s chest.

Then Dante turned his head. He looked across the smoky room and saw me standing near the side entrance, my clothes soaked with rain, holding the tactical knife in my hand, with Titan standing proudly at my side.

Dante’s eyes softened, a look of profound, overwhelming reverence washing over his features.

He lowered the gun, turning his full attention back to Marco.

“You made three mistakes, Marco,” Dante said, his voice echoing through the massive warehouse like a death knell. “First, you stole from my family. Second, you hurt my brother’s dog. And third...”