The mafia boss’s dog had just attacked a professional handler so badly that the man fled through the estate gates bleeding when my maid’s three-year-old daughter walked directly toward him, clutching a small laundry cloth in her hand

The winter frost had turned the Chicago docks into a jagged landscape of ice and rusted iron. By 2:00 AM, the temperature had dropped well below zero, the wind whipping off Lake Michigan like a razor blade.

I stood in the shadow of a shipping container, Nero sitting steadfast at my side. His neck had been carefully treated and bandaged by a trusted vet, but the scar left by the wire served as a constant reminder of the breach within my walls. Across the snow-dusted asphalt, three sleek black SUVs sat idling near Warehouse 14—the primary drop point Julian had exposed during his interrogation.

Marco crouched beside me, adjusting his thermal goggles. "Don Alessio, Victor Valenti’s top lieutenant, Cassian, just entered the structure. They’re expecting Julian’s digital drive."

"They will receive something else," I said coldly.

Nero gave a low rumble, his golden eyes fixed on the warehouse doors. He knew why we were here. Dogs understand vengeance far better than humans do—they do not wrap it in philosophy or guilt; they simply settle the debt.

"Keep the perimeter tight," I ordered Marco. "No one leaves this dock alive except Cassian. I need him conscious enough to deliver a message to Victor."

"Understood, Boss."

At my nod, Marco signaled the surrounding strike team. Silent as shadows, a dozen Moretti men moved in, night-vision gear cutting through the gloom. Within thirty seconds, the outer sentries fell without firing a single audible shot.

I walked into the dimly lit warehouse, the heavy crunch of my boots echoing off the concrete. Nero walked half a step ahead of me, his posture lethal, his shoulders bunched with muscle.

Inside, Cassian was pacing near a stack of wooden crates, checking his watch. When he turned and saw me walking through the doorway—unarmed, flanked only by my men and the very dog he thought had been neutralized—his face went entirely slack.

"Alessio..." Cassian whispered, his hand diving toward his jacket.

Before his fingers could even touch his leather holster, Nero moved. He was a black flash across the concrete. A choked cry tore from Cassian’s throat as Nero slammed his massive frame into him, pinning him to the floor with a bone-shattering crash. Nero’s jaws clamped tightly over Cassian’s wrist, holding him immobile without crushing his throat.

I stopped a foot away, looking down at the squirming lieutenant.

"Victor thought he could put a wire around my dog’s throat," I said, my voice echoing in the vast, empty space. "He thought he could buy my accountants and bleed my family from the inside."

"Alessio, please!" Cassian gasped, blood pooling beneath his pinned arm. "It was Victor! He ordered it all! He said the dog was the weak link—"

"The dog," I interrupted gently, "was the only one who maintained his loyalty."

I reached into my coat, pulled out a heavy envelope filled with photos of the Valenti family’s hidden offshore assets—data retrieved from the blood-stained drive Elsie had found—and tossed it onto Cassian’s chest.

"Take this to Victor. Tell him the Moretti empire does not bleed. Tell him I am taking everything he owns, starting tonight. And if I ever see his face in Chicago again, I won't send my men. I will send Nero."