Chapter 1 - The Bare Hand
She pulled off her gloves.
The wet slap of latex hitting the floor echoed like a gunshot in the silent hallway.
Thirty hardened killers stared at her in absolute disbelief.
Clara took a slow step forward.
Titan's massive head swiveled toward her.
A low growl vibrated through the marble floor, shaking the dust from the baseboards.
Clara did not flinch.
She kept her bare hands visible, palms open, completely defenseless.
"I am here to help him," she whispered.
She took another step into the beast's territory.
The men behind her raised their weapons, ready to shoot the dog if it lunged.
Titan's muscles coiled tight under his scarred black coat.
He leaned forward, his nose grazing the pale skin of her wrist.
He smelled the iodine, the sterile soap, and the complete absence of fear.
For the first time in two hours, the giant mastiff whined and took one step back.
A collective gasp swept through the armed guards.
Clara dropped to her knees beside the bleeding mafia boss.
Adrian Castellano was paler than the marble beneath him.
His breathing was ragged, a wet rattling sound that meant his lungs were failing.
Clara pressed her bare fingers against his neck to find a pulse.
It was impossibly weak, fading with every passing second.
She grabbed trauma shears from her bag and ripped his ruined shirt open.
The men in the hall finally began to rush forward.
Titan instantly snapped his jaws at them, forcing them to freeze again.
The dog would only allow the nurse.
Clara wiped away the thick layer of clotting blood on his chest.
She expected to see a ragged wound from the assault rifles fired outside.
Instead, she gasped at what she found underneath his ruined vest.
The entry wound was small, scorched black with powder burns.
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It was a point-blank shot from a custom silver derringer, a weapon she knew only one man in the city carried.
The killer was not among the attackers outside, but standing somewhere in the hallway right behind her.
