Chapter 6 - The Return of the Mastiff
The convoy of four armored black Suburbans arrived outside Marin’s dilapidated tenement building on 49th Street with the precision of a military strike force.
Six armed operatives in dark tactical gear sealed the street, while Rocco and Marin descended the concrete steps into her cramped, single-room basement flat.
The door swung open.
On the floor, wrapped in her grandmother's patchwork quilt beside the humming radiator, Titus lay with his head lifted.
The moment the massive black mastiff saw the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of Rocco Falcone step across the threshold, the animal let out a deep, chest-rattling roar of joy—a sound that shook the single-pane windows of the tenement.
He struggled to his feet on trembling, uncoordinated legs, his heavy tail thumping against the radiator with concussive force.
Rocco Falcone, the undisputed king of Chicago’s underworld, dropped to both knees in the middle of the cracked linoleum floor.
He did not care about the dirt. He did not care about his five-thousand-dollar suit.
He buried his face into the thick, wrinkled folds of Titus’s neck, his massive arms wrapping around the dog's scarred shoulders, pulling the hundred-and-fifty-pound beast against his chest as silent, heavy tears of pure, unashamed relief tracked down his hardened face.
Titus whined, pressing his massive jowls against Rocco’s jaw, licking away the tears with frantic, slobbering devotion.
"I’m sorry, boy," Rocco wept softly against the black fur. "I’m so sorry I let them take you."
Marin stood in the doorway, watching the most feared man in the Midwest hold his dog like a father holding a rescued child, feeling her own tears well behind her eyes.
Titus pulled back, turned his massive head toward Marin, and nudged her hip with his wet nose, letting out a soft, contented huff.
Rocco looked up from the floor, his slate-gray eyes shining with profound, eternal gratitude as he looked at the young woman standing in her faded uniform.
"You carried him, Marin," Rocco whispered, his voice trembling. "Two miles in the freezing mud."
"He was waiting for you, Mr. Falcone," Marin said simply. "He never stopped looking north."
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Rocco stood up, resting one hand firmly on Titus’s collar, extending the other toward Marin.
"His name is Titus," Rocco said, a rare, breathtaking smile touching his lips. "And from this moment on, you call me Rocco."
