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

It was a cavernous, dimly lit industrial space where stacked shipping containers stretched up toward the shadows of the vaulted ceiling like metal monoliths. According to the data on the titanium flash drive, this was the primary distribution hub for the rival syndicate—and the location where the final, unredacted ledger files were being decrypted for an offshore buyer.

“We go in through the loading bay ventilation shaft,” Roman whispered, crouching behind a stack of wooden crates beside me.

He was dressed in full tactical gear now—matte black composite vest, tactical boots, and a suppressed rifle slung across his chest. I wore a heavy canvas jacket over my clothes, holding a compact sidearm Roman had insisted I keep in my pocket.

And beside us, completely silent and entirely focused, stood Titan. The 130-pound Corso wore a fresh, reinforced harness—this one devoid of tracking beacons or data drives, built purely for combat utility.

“How many?” I whispered back, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“Six guards inside the main office. Two at the terminal,” Roman replied, checking his watch. “We have a three-minute window before their shift rotation.”

“And if we miss the window?”

“Then we improvise.”

Roman moved with the silent, lethal grace of a predator, slipping past the stack of crates toward the side entrance of the corrugated metal office suspended thirty feet above the warehouse floor. I followed closely behind, my boots making no sound against the concrete. Titan shadowed my right side like a living black shadow.

We scaled the metal staircase without incident, reaching the catwalk that overlooked the main terminal floor below. Through the reinforced glass windows of the elevated office, I could see two men in tactical gear sitting in front of a bank of glowing computer monitors, downloading the final files from the titanium drive interface plugged into their main server.

“That’s our data,” Roman muttered, raising his weapon.

Before he could signal the breach, the door behind us clicked.

“Drop the weapons. Hands where I can see them.”

I froze. A heavy, cold barrel of a submachine gun pressed firmly against the back of my neck.

Roman stopped dead in his tracks, slowly lowering his rifle as three additional guards stepped out from the shadows of the catwalk behind us, weapons drawn and locked on his chest.

“Well, well, well,” a smooth, arrogant voice drawled from the office doorway.

A tall man in an immaculate gray linen suit stepped out onto the catwalk. He had slicked-back dark hair, cold blue eyes, and a predatory smirk that made my stomach churn.

Victor Vance. No relation to me, thankfully, but a name whispered in the darkest corners of Boston’s underworld as Roman’s primary corporate rival.

“Roman,” Victor purred, spreading his arms wide in mock welcome. “I was wondering when you’d finally crawl out of your burning estate to collect your dog.”

Roman’s face was a mask of cold, stone-like rage. “Let her go, Victor. This is between you and me.”

“Oh, it’s not just between us anymore,” Victor laughed, stepping closer and tapping the muzzle of his gun against my shoulder. “The girl has made quite a name for herself. Stealing my flash drive, blowing up your own multi-million-dollar mansion—truly, a romance for the ages.”

“She has nothing to do with this,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifying growl.

“She chose to walk into the fire, Roman. Just like you did.” Victor raised his pistol, aiming it straight at Roman’s chest. “Say goodbye to your pet project.”

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl.

I looked at Roman. I looked at the armed guards surrounding us on the narrow catwalk.

And then I looked down at Titan.

The massive Cane Corso wasn't cowering. His muscles were bunched like coiled steel springs beneath his black coat, his amber eyes locked entirely on Victor Vance.