629 For seven years, Max—the mafia boss’s massive Cane Corso—never barked at strangers, enemies, or even men pointing guns at his owner, but the night he suddenly broke his silence and growled at Alessandro’s own wife, the feared crime lord realized his most trusted protector had been trying to warn him all along.

Saturday evening.

The kids were at my sister's house in Westchester—a safety measure I had arranged under the guise of giving Isabella and me a "quiet weekend to rest."

The brownstone was silent. Outside, a gentle autumn rain tapped against the glass windows.

Isabella was in the kitchen preparing a pot roast. The smell of rosemary, garlic, and braised beef filled the house—a warm, domestic aroma that felt utterly bizarre given the impending bloodshed.

I sat in my study on the ground floor, watching the security monitor hidden inside my desk drawer.

On the screen, I watched Isabella open the spice cabinet. She reached to the very back, behind the organic sea salt, and pulled out a small glass dropper bottle. She carefully uncapped it and added six precise drops to the gravy simmering on the stove.

Six drops. A lethal dose designed to shut my heart down within three hours of digestion.

She replaced the bottle, stirred the gravy with a wooden spoon, tasted it, and smiled.

I closed the desk drawer. My heart felt hollow, stripped of all emotion, leaving only a cold, mechanical precision behind.

Max sat beside my chair. He had stopped sleeping over the last forty-eight hours. He knew the climax was coming. His amber eyes were fixed on the study door, his ears perked up, listening to every footstep in the hallway.

"Alessandro?" Isabella’s voice called out from the kitchen, sweet and clear. "Dinner’s almost ready! I made your favorite!"

"Coming, darling," I called back.

I opened my floor safe, pulled out a suppressed 9mm Beretta, and slid it into my shoulder holster beneath my cardigan sweater. I looked down at Max.

"Stay here until I call you, boy," I whispered.

The dog lay down behind the desk, completely invisible from the doorway, his body rigid.

I walked into the dining room. The table was set with our finest silver, crystal wine glasses, and beeswax candles. Isabella was ladling the thick, dark gravy over two plates of roast beef.

"You sit down and rest," she said, pulling out my chair for me with a tender smile. "I'll handle everything tonight."

"You're too good to me, Isabella," I said, sitting down.

She poured two glasses of Chianti, handed one to me, and sat across the table. "To us," she said, raising her glass. "And to second chances."

I held my glass up, looking through the dark red wine at her face. "To family," I replied. "And the promises we keep."

We touched glasses. The crystal rang with a high, pure tone that hung in the air like a chime.

Isabella took a sip of her wine, watching me intently as I raised my fork, dipping a piece of beef into the poisoned gravy. She held her breath, her fingers tightening around her napkin under the table. Her eyes were fixed on my mouth.