Marco’s eyes flickered. "That was business. This is a funeral."
At the sound of Marco’s voice, the hair along Bruno’s spine suddenly stood straight up.
The slate-gray hide bristled, rising like a line of iron needles from his shoulder blades down to his tail. The low whimpering stopped instantly, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness.
Slowly—so slowly it made the back of my throat go dry—Bruno raised his head from the wooden coffin.
His dark eyes, clouded with age and old scars, didn't look at me. They didn't look at Tony. They didn't look at the grieving father in the front row.
They locked onto Marco Ricci.
A sound began deep within the mastiff's chest. It wasn't the high-pitched growl of a nervous stray or the bark of a territorial watchdog. It was a dark, guttural rumble—the sound of earth shifting, of grinding stone, of a killer recognizing its prey.
Marco took an involuntary half-step backward, his heel catching on the edge of a floral arrangement stand, sending a basket of white roses tilting against the wall.
"What the hell is wrong with that beast?" Marco whispered, his voice losing its polished smoothness, a sudden edge of panic cracking through the surface.
"He doesn't like the scent of lavender," I said quietly.
"Carmine, call him off," Marco said, his hand dropping casually toward his waist, his fingers twitching near his coat buttons. "I'm serious. Control your animal."
Bruno stood up.
He didn't leap. He didn't lung. He rose with a slow, deliberate majesty, his broad shoulders locking into place, his heavy paws planting themselves firmly on the carpet. He positioned his body entirely between Marco and the little white box, shielding Elena Vasquez with his own flesh.
His upper lip curled back, revealing rows of yellowed, blunt teeth and long, deadly canines. The growl deepened, vibrating so hard through the floorboards that I could feel it through the soles of my shoes.
The room went completely ice-cold.
Tomas Vasquez looked up from his hands, his wet, red-rimmed eyes moving from the dog to Marco, then to me. The two undertakers standing near the door backed silently out into the hallway, pulling the heavy velvet curtains shut behind them.
"Tony," I said, my eyes never leaving Marco's face.
"Yeah, Boss?"
"Where were you three days ago at six in the evening?"
Tony didn't hesitate. "I was at the social club in Ridgewood, Boss. Playing cards with Big Mike and the boys from the butcher shop. You called me at six-fifteen from the restaurant."
"I did," I acknowledged. Then I shifted my gaze two inches to the left. "And you, Marco? Where were you at six in the evening three days ago?"
Marco’s left jaw muscle twitched again. His eyes darted to the window, then back to my face. "I told you on Monday, Carmine. I was making the round on Fifth Street. Collecting from the bakery and the dry cleaner."
"The dry cleaner closes at five on Tuesdays," I said softly.
"I caught the owner in the back," Marco said quickly. Too quickly. The words tumbled out of his mouth like coins spilled onto a tile floor. "He was clearing out his register. Took me twenty minutes to get the six grand he owed us. After that, I went straight home. Ask my wife. She cooked pork chops."