Chapter 8 - Fire in the South End
The South Boston neighborhood was a chaotic mess of flashing red lights, billowing black smoke, and the frantic wail of sirens that had arrived twenty minutes too late.
When the black Tahoe screeched to a halt half a block from Second Chance Paws, Elena threw the door open before the vehicle had even fully stopped.
"Elena, wait!" Adrian barked, catching her by the arm as she tried to leap out into the rain and smoke.
"Let me go!" she screamed, fighting against his grip with a strength born of pure panic. Through the thick plumes of gray smoke rolling down the narrow street, she could see the front facade of her rescue shop—the cheerful yellow sign she had painted herself was blackened and scorched, the front window completely blown out, jagged teeth of glass framing a tongue of orange flame licking at the ceiling.
"Marcus, secure the perimeter!" Adrian ordered, stepping out of the Tahoe and pulling Elena behind him, sheltering her body with his massive frame. "Get the local fire captain over here right now or I'll have his badge before the hour is out."
Before Marcus could move, a figure stumbled out of the alley beside the burning building, coughing violently and clutching a soot-covered blanket to his chest.
"Mrs. Higgins!" Elena cried, breaking away from Adrian and running toward the elderly neighbor. "Mrs. Higgins, are you—"
"I got 'em, Elena!" the old woman wheezed, her face stained with black soot, her hands shaking as she pulled back the edge of the heavy wool blanket.
Beneath it, four tiny, whimpering balls of fur—the terrier mix puppies from the back pen—were squirming and crying, entirely unharmed.
Elena dropped to her knees in the wet asphalt, gathering the puppies against her chest, sobbing openly as she buried her face in their soft fur.
Adrian stood over them, his dark wool coat billowing in the wind, his amber eyes fixed on the burning wreckage of the shop. Behind him, three more black SUVs pulled up, disgorging a dozen armed men in tactical gear who fanned out across the street, pushing back the gathering crowd of onlookers with terrifying efficiency.
From the shadows of the opposite alley, a figure stepped forward—a man in an expensive tailored suit that looked entirely out of place in the soot and rain.
Salvatore—the Moretti enforcer who had survived the night before—was smirking, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he watched the rescue shop burn.
"Too bad, Mercer," Salvatore called out over the roar of the fire. "Looks like the stray shelter ran out of lives. Boss Moretti sends his regards. Next time, it won't be an empty building."
Adrian didn't answer. He didn't even draw a weapon.
He simply whistled. Two short, sharp notes.
From the back of the Tahoe, Goliath leaped through the open window, hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. The hundred-and-forty-pound Cane Corso didn't look at the fire. He didn't look at the crowd.
His amber eyes locked entirely onto Salvatore.
"Bring him to me," Adrian said softly.
May you like
And for the second time in two days, the monster was unleashed.
***
