The first thing my daughter did when she met the most dangerous dog in Vincent Hale’s house was put her tiny hand between his teeth.

Grimm didn't jump for the dock.

He jumped for the mooring line.

With an impossible burst of athletic power that defied his age and his injuries, the one-hundred-and-forty-pound dog launched himself across the six-foot gap between the boat and the wooden pylon. His jaws clamped down on the two-inch hemp rope connecting the launch to the dock winch, and his massive weight ripped the cleat straight out of the rotting wood with the sound of a gunshot.

The launch, freed from its mooring, swung violently out into the churning current of the cavern.

"Shoot him!" Nolan shrieked, stumbling backward on the catwalk. "Shoot the dog!"

The mercenaries opened fire, muzzle flashes strobing in the dark boathouse. The bullets chewed into the wooden planks, throwing splinters into the air.

Grimm hit the lower walkway like a battering ram.

He didn't bite to wound. He fought with the ancient, terrifying fury of a beast that knew he was already dead. He took a bullet through his flank and didn't even slow down; he drove the first mercenary over the iron railing into the propeller blades below, whipped around, and tore the throat out of the second before the man could clear his sidearm.

"Die, you monster!" Nolan screamed, slamming his thumb down on the detonator.

Nothing happened.

Nolan stared down at the small black box in his hand. The red light was dead.

From the top of the iron catwalk, thirty feet above the water, a tall, soot-blackened figure stepped out of the shadows.

Vincent Hale was holding a severed bundle of multi-colored electrical wiring in his bloody left hand.

"Looking for the receiver, Nolan?" Vincent asked.

His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the cavern like a blade of ice.

Nolan looked up, his jaw dropping, his face draining of every drop of blood. "Vincent... no... how did you get past the blast doors?"

"My father built this tunnel, Nolan," Vincent said, walking down the metal stairs, his shotgun dangling casually from one hand. "Did you really think he gave you the real blue-prints?"

"Stay back!" Nolan shrieked, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his waistband with his good hand, pointing it wildly up the stairs. "I’ll shoot! I swear to God, Vincent, I’ll kill you!"

Vincent didn't stop. He walked down the stairs with the slow, measured pace of a priest approaching an altar.

"You killed Elena," Vincent said.

"It was business!" Nolan wailed, his voice cracking into high, pathetic sobs. "You were going to hand the ports to the Italians! You were weak! She was just collateral damage!"

"She was your sister," Vincent said.

Nolan fired.

The bullet struck Vincent high in the right shoulder, spinning him half a step backward. Blood bloomed instantly across his torn white shirt.

Vincent didn't even grunt.

He closed the distance in two strides, grabbed Nolan’s wrist with his bare hand, and bent it backward until the bone snapped through the skin with a sickening *crack*. The revolver dropped, clattering down through the iron grating into the black water below.

Nolan fell to his knees, screaming in agony, cradling his shattered arm against his ribs. "Vincent, please! We’re brothers! Same blood! You can't kill your own brother!"

Vincent looked down at him, his face covered in soot, rain, and blood, his eyes colder than the bottom of the Atlantic.

"I don't have a brother," Vincent said softly. "My brother died four years ago in the river with Elena."

Vincent didn't use the shotgun. He turned his head toward the lower landing where Grimm stood, panting heavily, blood pooling beneath his paws from three separate bullet wounds, his scarred face illuminated by the swaying dock lights.

"Bear," Vincent whispered. "Justice."

Nolan barely had time to look up before one hundred and forty pounds of black fur hit him like an avalanche.

The scream was cut off in half a second, followed by a heavy splash as both bodies tumbled over the edge into the black, churning sea below the cliffs.

"Vincent!" I screamed from the drifting boat.

Vincent threw the shotgun aside, rushed down the remaining stairs, and dove headfirst into the freezing, boiling ocean without a second of hesitation.

"Mama! Mama, look!" Lucy was crying, pointing out into the dark water where the launch was beginning to drift toward the open sea.

For twenty agonizing seconds, there was nothing but the sound of the wind, the crashing waves, and the black, impenetrable surface of the Sound.

Then, ten yards from the boat, a dark head broke the water.

Vincent was gasping for air, his left arm locked tightly around Grimm’s massive chest, holding the dog’s head above the white foam. The Cane Corso was barely moving, his eyes rolling back in his head, his breathing shallow and rattling.

Nolan was nowhere to be seen, swallowed forever by the dark undertow of the sound.

"Marcus!" I screamed, grabbing the heavy wooden boat hook from the cabin wall. "Help me!"

Marcus, clutching his bloody shoulder with one hand, dragged himself to the helm with pure willpower, slamming the throttle into reverse to fight the current, bringing the rear swim platform within two feet of Vincent’s struggling form.

I leaned out over the churning water, throwing my weight across the fiberglass transom, extending the boat hook. "Vincent! Grab it!"

He didn't grab the hook. He pushed Grimm’s front paws onto the swim platform first.

"Take him!" Vincent choked out, spitting salt water. "Take the dog, Claire! He’s going under!"

"I’m taking you both!" I yelled over the roar of the storm.

I grabbed the thick leather collar around Grimm’s neck with both hands, screaming with the effort as I hauled the dog’s dead weight onto the deck. Lucy rushed forward, grabbing Grimm’s tail, pulling with all her six-year-old might until the massive, soaked beast slid completely onto the non-skid fiberglass, gasping for life.

Then I reached down for Vincent.

My fingers locked into the fabric of his torn shirt. The current was tearing at his legs, trying to pull him down into the dark grave he had spent four years preparing for himself.

"Let go, Claire," he rasped, his gray eyes looking up at me through the salt spray, completely resigned. "The boat is too heavy. You’ll be pulled in."

"I am not letting you go, you stubborn bastard!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face, mixing with the freezing ocean rain. "You bought me a foundation! You gave my daughter a life! You don't get to die in the dark!"

Lucy dropped to her knees beside me, her small, cold hands wrapping around Vincent’s wrist, right over his old bullet scar.

"Come home, Mr. Vincent," Lucy cried, her voice piercing through the thunder. "Bear needs his dad."

Vincent Hale looked at my daughter’s hands on his wrist.

Something broke inside him—or perhaps, something finally knitted back together. The hollow, lifeless surrender vanished from his eyes, replaced by a fierce, desperate will to live.

With a ragged roar that tore from his lungs, Vincent kicked against the surging ocean, lunging upward, grabbing the stainless steel railing with his good hand, and hauled his massive frame out of the black water, collapsing onto the deck beside us.

We lay there in a tangle of wet limbs, salt water, and blood on the deck of the rocking boat as Marcus steered us out through the sea gates, leaving the burning mansion and the ruins of an empire behind us in the dark.

Grimm weakly lifted his head, pressed his cold, wet snout against Lucy’s cheek, and let out one long, trembling sigh.