Everyone Was Forbidden From Approaching the Unconscious Mafia Boss—Until His Guard Dog Picked a Poor Nurse

By eleven o'clock the next morning, the sun was high over the salt marshes of Warwick, throwing harsh yellow light through the frosted windows of the clinic’s south corridor.

The private floor had become an armed camp. Eight men in dark suits sat in the waiting area, their coats unbuttoned to reveal shoulder holsters. Two more stood at the elevators, checking the credentials of every technician who brought up fresh bags of saline or surgical supplies.

Inside Room 202, Stefano Marquetti was breathing on his own.

The ventilator had been pulled at nine AM. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm, the cardiac monitor tracing a steady, seventy-two-bpm line across the blue screen.

Alice stood beside his bed, holding a pair of surgical shears. She was wearing a fresh pair of grey scrubs provided by the clinic staff. Her long dark hair was braided down her back, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.

Nero lay under the window, his head resting on his paws, his eyes following every movement of her hands.

She carefully cut through the outer layers of heavy gauze over Stefano’s ribs. The dressing was dark with serous fluid, but there was no fresh arterial red—the internal sutures were holding.

"You're doing that wrong," a rasping voice said from the bed.

Alice didn't jump. Her hands didn't shake. She continued peeling the final layer of non-stick mesh away from the wound.

"If I were doing it wrong, you’d be screaming," she said without looking at his face. "Hold your breath for three seconds while I lift the drain border."

Stefano Marquetti’s eyes were open. They were a dark, stormy hazel, framed by thick black lashes and deep shadows of exhaustion. He looked up at the smooth, pale face of the woman standing over him, then down at the shears in her hand.

He took a slow, shallow breath and held it.

Alice removed the packing with two swift, precise movements, set it in the biohazard tray, and immediately placed a warm, saline-soaked pad over the exposed tissue.

Stefano let his breath out in a long, ragged hiss. Sweat broke out across his forehead, but he didn't make a sound.

"You have five entry points from the shrapnel," Alice said, her voice remaining perfectly professional. "Three on the thigh, two along the intercostal margin. The bullet hit the ninth rib, split into two pieces, and came out four inches lower. Dr. Mercer did a clean repair, but you have three weeks of bed rest ahead of you."

Stefano didn't look at his chest. His eyes shifted past her shoulder, toward the window.

Nero stood up. The massive dog walked over to the side of the bed, placed his chin on the mattress, and let out a long, heavy sigh that sounded almost human.

Stefano raised his right hand—slowly, as if his arm weighed fifty pounds—and rested his knuckles against the dog’s broad head.

"Nero," Stefano rasped, his voice rough from the intubation tube. "Who... is she?"

"Her name is Alice Brennan," Danny Falcone’s voice came from the doorway. Danny stepped into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. "She’s the reason you're breathing, Boss. Nero wouldn't let Mercer near you. She walked up to the dog bare-handed and got him to move."

Stefano’s dark eyes shifted back to Alice. He looked at her bare hands, then up to her gray eyes.

"Where are your gloves?" Stefano asked.

"In the hallway back at your house," Alice said, applying fresh paper tape to the edge of the dressing. "Your dog doesn't like blue nitrile. Next time your men try to treat him after a blast, tell them to use clear latex or nothing at all."

Stefano watched her for five long seconds. He was a man who had spent fifteen years reading people for a living—evaluating lies, calculating motives, spotting fear before it turned into action.

He saw no fear in Alice Brennan. He saw no greed. He saw only a cold, mechanical focus that belonged in a high-security lab or a military headquarters.

"Danny," Stefano said, his voice quiet.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Why is she still here?"

"Carmine," Danny said simply. "He put a hold on her. He thinks she was part of the setup."

A faint, ugly smile touched the corners of Stefano’s mouth. "Carmine thinks everyone who isn't his cousin is part of a setup."

"He checked her background," Danny added. "She’s got a clean record. Too clean. No tax history prior to five years ago. Born in Boston, but there's no registry of her at South Boston High."

Alice didn't stop her work. She smoothed the last piece of tape down against Stefano’s ribs, pulled the white sheet up to his chest, and set the shears in the stainless steel tray.

"If you're done checking my vitals, Mr. Marquetti, I'd like to leave," Alice said, picking up her clipboard. "I have an apartment that needs water and a dog of my own that hasn't been fed since yesterday."

Stefano leaned back against his pillows, his dark eyes never leaving her face. "What kind of dog?"

"A greyhound," Alice said. "A rescue from the Raynham track."

"Greyhounds are fast," Stefano observed. "Hard to catch if they break off the leash."

"She doesn't run," Alice said flatly. "She knows where her food comes from."

Before Stefano could respond, the room door was thrown open. Carmine Baldi walked in, holding a black leather tablet in his hand. His face was flushed, his neck thick with dark blood.

"We have a hit," Carmine said, ignoring Alice entirely. "The ballistics on the eight-millimeter round came back from the lab in Jersey."

Stefano didn't move his head. "And?"

"It wasn't an Italian gun," Carmine said, holding out the tablet. "It was a German Walther WA2000. Custom rifling. There are only four of those chassis in the Northeast."

Danny stepped forward, his face suddenly pale. "The Vance network."

"Not just the network," Carmine sneered, turning his eyes toward Alice with cold, predatory triumph. "The gun was registered six years ago to a private security firm in Hartford. The firm was owned by a former intelligence officer named Major Richard Brennan."

The room went dead silent.

Nero lifted his head from the bed, his ears pinning back against his skull.

Carmine dropped the tablet onto the foot of Stefano’s bed. "Richard Brennan had one daughter. She took his middle name five years ago after he died in a federal holding cell in Philadelphia."