Bruno had survived gunfire, betrayals, and assassination attempts without fear, but one scent near a little girl’s coffin made him whimper, growl

Two weeks after Marco’s exile, the syndicate was running smoother than it had in a decade.

Without the dead weight of a corrupt underboss skimming off the top of our shipping contracts, our logistics lines across the eastern seaboard were cleaner, faster, and more profitable than ever. Tony had stepped up seamlessly into Marco’s old role, bringing a ruthless efficiency and an unshakeable loyalty that made me wonder why I hadn't promoted him years earlier.

But peace in our world is never permanent.

It was a cold Thursday night at 11:00 PM when the alert came through.

I was sitting in my private office at the docks, reviewing import manifests, while Bruno dozed on a large orthopedic mat beside my desk. The rhythmic, heavy sound of his breathing was the only noise in the room aside from the distant screech of gulls and the low rumble of container cranes outside on the pier.

The heavy steel door swung open without a knock.

Tony walked in fast, his face pale, holding a encrypted satellite phone in his hand.

"Boss," Tony said, closing the door and locking the deadbolt behind him. "We’ve got a problem. A big one."

I didn't look up from my ledger. "Define big."

"The Castellano family out of Brooklyn," Tony said, dropping a manila folder onto my desk. "They’ve been quietly buying up commercial real estate along our primary trucking routes in Queens. Specifically... the block surrounding Vasquez Bakery."

My pen stopped moving across the paper.

The silence in the office instantly changed. The cozy, domestic warmth of the afternoon vanished, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of impending violence.

"Castellano," I said, testing the name on my tongue like a bitter pill. "Salvatore Castellano?"

"No. His younger brother, Paul," Tony replied, pacing across the room. "Word on the street is that Paul Castellano is looking to expand his narcotics distribution pipeline into our territory. He thinks we're getting soft because we cleared out our upper management. He’s leaning on local business owners to sign over their storefronts for underground stash houses."

"And Mateo?" My voice was dangerously low.

"They already paid him a visit this afternoon," Tony said grimly. "Threw a brick through his bakery window with a note attached giving him forty-eight hours to vacate the premises or watch his shop burn to the ground."

Bruno’s head snapped up off the mat.

In a fraction of a second, the dog was on his feet. His ears were pinned back, his massive shoulders bunched, and a low, gutteral growl began to rumble deep inside his chest—the exact same sound he had made in the funeral parlor before Marco’s betrayal was exposed.

Bruno didn't need to read a report. He smelled the new threat in the air before Tony had even finished explaining it.

I stood up slowly from my desk, buttoning my black wool coat.

"Get the cars ready," I said.

"Boss," Tony hesitated, looking at me with genuine concern. "Paul Castellano is backed by at least fifty armed enforcers in Brooklyn. If we go to war over a bakery, it’s going to trigger a city-wide turf war that will cost us millions."

I walked over to the gun cabinet against the wall, unlocked it with a heavy brass key, and pulled out a customized Remington shotgun, checking the load with a satisfying shuck-shuck.

"Tony," I said, turning to face my lieutenant with a cold, dead smile. "For thirty years, I fought wars over shipping lanes, dock rights, and bags of cash. I killed men for less than what Paul Castellano is about to do."