Chapter 1 - The Pulse in the Mahogany
The air in the chapel instantly lost five degrees. The hum of the central heating unit sputtered overhead, drowning in a dense, suffocating hush that settled across the pews.
The funeral director, a gaunt man named Miller whose black suit hung off his frail frame like a drape over a skeleton, retreated two steps backward into the floral arrangement. His fingers twitched against his thighs, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the massive Rottweiler pressing its entire forehead against the side panel of the white lacquer box.
"Sir," Miller stammered, his voice rising an octave in sheer panic. "This is highly irregular... the body has been prepared. The family—"
"Open the goddamn lid, Miller," I growled. My voice did not carry the volume of a shout, but it held the flat, mechanical weight of a steel door slamming shut over a vault.
Behind me, Tony took two steps to the left, his hand sliding smoothly beneath his charcoal jacket, resting on the custom grip of his Sig Sauer. The six other men I had brought into the chapel spread out naturally, blocking the exits, their eyes fixed on Marco Ricci.
Marco was pinned against the wood paneling of the back wall by my enforcers. The color had left his face entirely, leaving his skin looking like wet plaster. Drops of sweat rolled down his temples, tracking through the fine stubble along his jawline. He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was staring at Bruno.
The dog wasn't growling at Marco now.
Bruno had completely forgotten the traitor. 120 pounds of scarred muscle and bone was pressed tightly against the base of the white casket. His broad snout was shoved into the micro-gap between the hinged lid and the soft velvet trim. His ears were pinned flat against his broad skull, his ribcage expanding and contracting in violent, rapid gasps.
Then came the sound again.
It was a scratch. Not from the outside.
A dull, wet thump echoed from deep within the lining of the casket, followed by a faint, rhythmic rasp that sounded like dry paper sliding against silk.
Rosa Vasquez let out an unearthly shriek that tore through the chapel, a sound of absolute, shattered horror that made every hardened killer in the room flinch. She collapsed forward, her knees hitting the hard carpet, her hands clawing wildly at her husband’s trousers. Tomas Vasquez caught her beneath her arms, his own eyes wide, glazed with a mixture of terror and insane, desperate hope.
"Open it!" Tomas screamed, his voice cracking into a raw sob. "Open it, God damn you!"
I stepped forward, shoving Miller out of the way so hard the man stumbled into a stand of white lilies, sending brass and water crashing across the floorboards.
I didn't wait for keys. I didn't look for the brass latch handles.
I shoved my calloused fingers straight into the seam between the upper lid and the padded base. My forearm veins bulged against the fabric of my tailored coat as I applied two hundred pounds of pressure upward. The cheap brass lock inside snapped with a sharp, metallic pop that sounded like a small caliber gunshot.
The lid flew open, bouncing against the rear brass hinges.
The smell came out first. Not the sickly sweet stench of formaldehyde, nor the cold decay of a morgue. It was the scent of lavender soap, cheap copper, and sweat—fresh, warm, living sweat.
Elena Vasquez lay in the center of the pink satin lining. Her small face was dusted with an unnatural layer of pale theatrical makeup meant to mask the blue tint of non-circulation. Her tiny hands were crossed over a white dress, the stuffed bunny tucked under her right elbow.
Her eyelids were still.
Her lips were blue-grey, parted just a fraction of an inch.
"She’s not breathing!" Tony yelled, stepping up beside me, his eyes wide. "Boss, she’s not breathing!"
"Look at her neck," I snapped, my heart hammering against my ribs with a force I hadn't felt in thirty years. "Look at her collarbone!"
Bruno lunged over the edge of the box, his large black nose pressing directly against the girl’s exposed collarbone. He didn't lick her. He didn't bite. He blew a long, warm puff of air straight onto her cold skin, his tail giving one frantic, desperate thud against the white wood.
Right beneath the thick layer of stage foundation on the side of her throat, a tiny purple vein fluttered.
Thump.
Three seconds of complete, terrifying silence.
Thump.
"She's paralytic," I breathed, the realization striking me like a physical blow. "They didn't kill her. They poisoned her."
I reached down with my left hand—the hand covered in the ink of the Queens Syndicate—and shoved my thumb forcefully under her chin, tilting her head back to clear her airway. With my right hand, I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my personal tactical blade, and flicked the edge open with a thumb strike.
Rosa screamed again, thinking I was going to harm the child, but Tomas held her back, his eyes locked onto mine with a terrifying clarity.
I didn't cut the girl. I jammed the flat spine of the steel blade straight into her mouth, pressing down on the base of her tongue to clear any blockage.
A sharp, ragged gasp tore out of Elena’s throat.
It was tiny, frail, like the squeak of a dying bird, but it shattered the silence of that funeral home like a cannon shot. Her small chest heaved violently upward beneath the white dress, pulling air into lungs that had been starved for seventy-two hours. Her hazel eyes snapped open, completely wild, pupils dilated to the size of pinpricks, unfocused and filled with absolute panic.
"Tomas! Get the paramedic unit from the corner!" I roared over my shoulder, not taking my fingers off her throat as I maintained her airway. "Tony, call Doc Miller at the compound! Tell him to bring three vials of Atropine and a ventilator unit to the back alley right now!"
"Boss!" Tony yelled, pointing toward the rear doors. "Marco!"
I didn't turn around. I didn't need to.
Marco Ricci had taken advantage of the chaotic second when the box sprang open. He had broken free from the enforcer holding his arm, shoving the man into a wooden pew, and was sprinting toward the heavy double doors that led to the chapel’s parking lot.
"Bruno," I whispered, my voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "Take him."
The Rottweiler didn't hesitate. He turned away from the coffin in a blur of black and tan fur, his heavy paws tearing through the red carpet as he launched himself down the center aisle.
Marco reached the brass handles of the exterior doors, throwing his weight against the push-bar. The doors swung open, letting in a draft of freezing December air and light snow. He made it two steps onto the icy asphalt before 120 pounds of pure rage hit him square in the middle of his back.
Marco screamed as he went down, his head bouncing off the concrete curb. Bruno’s jaws locked around the meat of Marco’s right shoulder, dragging him backward through the slush like a ragdoll. The bone crunched beneath the dog's bite, a sickening sound that echoed back into the quiet chapel.
"Don't kill him, Brun," I called out, my hand still resting gently over the fluttering pulse in Elena's neck as her mother dropped to her knees beside the coffin, weeping hysterically and kissing her daughter's freezing fingers. "I need him to talk before he bleeds out."
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I looked down at the little girl. Her eyes were fluttering now, struggling to focus on my face, on the ink creeping up my neck, on the scarred face of the most feared man in Queens.
"You're okay, little star," I murmured, using a phrase I had heard her father call her a hundred times in his restaurant. "The dog's got you. You're home."
