Chapter 4 - The Breach
On the video monitor, the vent grate exploded outward in a shower of splintered wood, metal screws, and acoustic tile.
Bruno came through the ceiling like a twelve-gauge shotgun blast wrapped in fur and muscle.
He dropped ten feet through the air, landing with crushing force directly on the chest of the first armed guard. The man let out a wet, choked scream as 120 pounds of sheer kinetic impact shattered his ribs against the hardwood floor. Before the second guard could even raise his submachine gun, Bruno pivoted with terrifying, unnatural agility, biting down viciously on the man’s forearm.
CRACK.
The sound of bones snapping echoed through the audio feed, followed by a ear-piercing shriek of agony as the second guard dropped his weapon, crashing to his knees.
Jimmy 'The Blade' spilled his bourbon all over his silk shirt, scrambling backward over the velvet couch in pure, unadulterated terror. "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT!"
Jimmy grabbed his nickel-plated pistol from the table, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. He aimed the weapon at Bruno, who was standing over the unconscious guard, his fur bristling, his lips pulled back over flashing yellow teeth.
"BRUNO, COVER!" I roared into the radio microphone.
At the exact second Jimmy pulled the trigger—BANG!—Bruno dove behind the heavy oak poker table. The bullet tore through the wood, missing the dog by inches.
Outside the plant, my tactical team didn't wait another second.
BOOM!
A breaching charge detonated against the reinforced steel front doors of the meatpacking plant, blowing the hinges off the frame in a blinding flash of light and smoke.
"GO! GO! GO!" Tony shouted, leading fifteen black-clad enforcers pouring into the building, their weapons firing in controlled, devastating bursts as they systematically neutralized Moretti’s outer guards.
I walked through the blown-out front entrance, holding my Kimber .45, stepping over the disarmed, groaning guards scattered across the floor. Bruno’s tracker beacon was flashing rapidly on my hand-held screen, showing he had trapped Jimmy in the rear VIP room.
By the time I kicked open the heavy oak door of the VIP suite, the room was a scene of utter carnage.
Both of Jimmy’s guards were unconscious on the floor, their weapons scattered. Jimmy 'The Blade' was pinned in the corner of the room, backed up against a floor-to-ceiling mirror, holding his empty, clicked-out pistol like a useless club.
Standing three feet in front of him, blocking his only exit, was Bruno.
The dog wasn't attacking. He was doing exactly what I had trained him to do: holding the target at bay. His front paws were planted wide, his chest heaving, a low, terrifying vibration echoing from his throat that vibrated the glass windows in the room.
Whenever Jimmy made the slightest movement to reach for a knife on his belt, Bruno would let out a short, thunderous snap of his jaws that made Jimmy shriek and slam his back harder against the mirror.
"Don't move, Jimmy," I said smoothly, stepping into the room, stepping over the debris, with Tony and my enforcers securing the doorway behind me.
Jimmy looked at me, his face slick with sweat, his eyes bulging with absolute terror. "Vittorio... Vittorio, listen to me! It was a business deal! Marco came to us! He offered us the docks!"
I walked up to Bruno, gently placing my hand on the dog's warm, trembling back. Instantly, Bruno’s growl softened, though his eyes never left Jimmy’s throat.
"I didn't come here because of the docks, Jimmy," I said quietly, pulling a small object from my pocket and holding it up in the dim amber light of the room.
It was a pair of small, scuffed purple sneakers—the shoes Elena Vasquez had been wearing when she was killed. I had retrieved them from her grieving father earlier that evening.
Jimmy’s eyes locked onto the shoes, and he visibly shuddered, his mouth going completely dry. "I... I didn't mean to hit her... she ran into the street..."
"You ran over a seven-year-old girl because she saw you taking a briefcase of blood money," I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark, so heavy, that even my own men behind me shifted uncomfortably. "You left her on the cold pavement like trash. And then you went back to your casino to drink bourbon and laugh about taking over my docks."
"Vittorio... please..." Jimmy dropped his useless gun, falling to his knees, clasping his hands together in desperate plea. "I'll give you everything! My territories in Queens! My shares in the cargo terminals! Ten million dollars in cash—it's in the safe right behind that painting! Take it all! Just let me live!"
I looked down at the purple sneakers in my hand, then placed them gently on the leather sofa beside the stacks of cash.
Then I looked at Bruno.
"Bruno," I whispered, my voice solemn, final, and absolute. "He’s yours."
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Jimmy let out a blood-curdling scream that was cut short as Bruno lunged forward, the 120-pound war dog fulfilling his final, terrifying duty of justice.
I turned my back and walked out of the room, listening to the heavy rain falling outside, knowing that the men who had broken a little girl's family would never hurt another soul again.
