Four armed men stormed into my pet supply store to take back a 130-pound Cane Corso—and somehow,

Roman didn’t blink. He stood by the front door, the rain outside blurring the neon lights of South End into a watery smear of crimson and amber. His heavy charcoal overcoat was still draped over the merchandise rack, leaving him in a stark black suit that seemed to absorb what little light the store had left.

“That man wasn’t a random street thug, Miss Vance,” Roman said, his voice quiet, carrying the flat certainty of a death sentence. “He was part of an international syndicate that has spent the last six months trying to intercept a specific cargo container arriving at the Conley Terminal. Titan was inside that container.”

My breath hitched. “You kept a dog in a shipping container?”

“He was transported under secure, climate-controlled veterinary protocols,” Roman corrected sharply, a flash of annoyance finally piercing his icy composure. “Protocol that was sabotaged from the inside. Someone within my own logistics network sold us out. They wanted the dog—or rather, what was strapped inside his tactical harness.”

I stared at him, my mind spinning back to the heavy, reinforced leather harness Titan wore. The thick spine panel, the metal rings, the awkward weight distribution.

“A data drive,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.

Roman’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't confirm it, but his silence was an admission.

“They tracked him here because his microchip has an active satellite ping that can’t be removed without surgery,” Roman continued, taking a step back toward me. “Now that your store has been marked, every operative on their payroll knows you sheltered him. If you stay here tonight, you won’t survive until sunrise.”

“This is my home,” I said, though the words sounded hollow even to my own ears. I looked down at the blood stain near the stockroom door—Leo’s blood. My chest tightened with a sharp wave of guilt and terror. “Leo is at the hospital. I have to close the shop, I have to talk to the police—”

“The police in this district are either on my payroll or too terrified of the syndicate to be of any use to you,” Roman interrupted ruthlessly. “You have two choices, Emily. You pack a bag, or you become a casualty of a war you didn't start.”

Before I could answer, Titan let out a low, rumbling groan, nudging his massive black head against my knee again. He looked up at me with amber eyes that held an uncanny, human-like intelligence, as if he understood every word being said.

I swallowed hard, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a cold, survival-driven clarity.

“Give me ten minutes,” I muttered.

Forty minutes later, I was sitting in the back seat of a custom-armored Mercedes SUV that felt more like a mobile bank vault than a car.

Titan occupied the entire floor space beside me, resting his massive head heavily across my lap, while Roman sat in the front passenger seat speaking in low, clipped tones into a secure satellite phone. The vehicle slid silently through the rain-slicked streets of Boston, bypassing the downtown traffic and heading south toward the secluded waterfront estates of Milton.

I stared out the rain-streaked window, watching the familiar brick storefronts blur past into dark, wooded highways. My entire life had imploded in less than two hours. My shop was trashed, my employee was in the hospital, and I was currently being chauffeured by a suspected mob billionaire into an unknown fortress.

“He’s stable,” Roman’s deep voice broke the quiet cabin.

I looked up, meeting his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Who? Leo?”

“Surgery went well. The knife missed major arteries. My people covered his medical bills under an anonymous corporate grant, and he’ll receive full hazard compensation once he recovers,” Roman said, turning slightly in his seat to look back at me. “He won’t remember anything about the syndicate. A narrative has already been provided to local authorities.”

“You make it sound so simple. Like moving chess pieces,” I said bitterly.

“In my world, hesitation is fatal,” Roman replied without a shred of apology. “You showed remarkable courage back at the store, Miss Vance. Most people freeze when violence enters their space. You threw a rack of rubber toys at an armed operative.”

A reluctant, nervous half-smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “It was the closest thing to my hand.”

“It bought Titan three seconds,” Roman noted, his eyes dropping to where the massive dog was gently snoring against my legs. “He doesn't trust easily. The fact that he sat on your foot means he recognized something in you that the men who trained him lost long ago.”

“What’s that?”

“An absence of malice.”

The Mercedes turned sharply off the coastal highway, passing through a pair of towering wrought-iron gates that swung open automatically as we approached. Beyond the gates lay a winding, tree-lined drive that ended in front of a sprawling, modernist stone mansion perched directly over the crashing waves of the Atlantic.

Dark, imposing, and breathtakingly luxurious.