Chapter 3: The Dog Bites Back
Constantine Mansion
The cast-iron gates groaned open, inward. Altair drove his black Corvette through, tires whispering over a driveway polished enough to reflect the city lights back at him.
The compound was a flex.
A three-story mansion draped in marble columns. Imported stone fountains throwing water in perfect arcs. Four supercars—two Ferraris, a Lamborghini, and a Rolls—parked like decorations. Spotlights lit the grounds like a private runway. And everywhere, men with rifles stood in quiet, efficient positions: balcony posts, garden shadows, rooftop silhouettes. All watching him.
"Kevin, you there?" Altair murmured into his earpiece.
Just outside the gate, a white ice-cream truck sat crooked at the curb. Kevin was crammed inside, surrounded by wires and monitors.
"In position," Kevin sighed. "Do you really think this is a good idea?"
"Of course. He invited me. Honestly, I wouldn't have made it past the gate otherwise." Altair smirked.
"You know this dude is loaded, right? Like… old-world mafia loaded."
"Makes it easier," Altair replied, parking. "I get to kill him and get rich. Win-win."
"So there's no talking you out of this?"
"Exactly."
Altair stepped out, adjusting his black suit, smoothing the lapel like he was about to attend a gala instead of walk into a lion's den. The massive mahogany door opened before he touched it.
"Welcome," the butler said. Old, spine straight, eyes dead-accurate in their assessment. Altair walked in.
The interior hit like a museum curated by someone with generational wealth and zero restraint.
High vaulted ceilings. Chandeliers that looked older than the city. Dark wood paneling. Oil paintings of Constantine ancestors glaring down. Persian rugs thick enough to trip a horse. And in every corner, disguised as shadows: armed guards pretending to be decor.
"This way. The master will see you," the butler said, opening a final door.
The dining room was long enough to hold a basketball court. Vittorio sat at the far end like a king carved out of old stone and cigar smoke. A fat cigar burned lazily between his fingers.
"So glad you came," Vittorio said, smiling as he lit the tip. "It'd be a waste to fetch you myself."
Altair's eyes drifted—doorways, guards, reflective surfaces, angles of attack. A professional's sweep.
Kevin's voice hissed urgently in his ear.
"Altair, there's no opening. Any move you make will get you shredded."
"I wouldn't want my poor upbringing to be the deciding factor again. I already lost two girlfriends over that."
Vittorio chuckled.
"Risotto? Fresh ingredients, real Italian chefs." He gestured for the butler.
"Nah. I don't plan on staying long," Altair said.
"Oh?" Vittorio waved everyone out until the last guard left and the door clicked shut.
"Is that a wise move?" Altair asked.
"I like a bit of honesty in conversation," Vittorio said. "I did some digging. You basically don't exist."
"I like to keep a low profile," Altair said, voice even.
"That made me curious—what made you… this way?" Vittorio took a deep drag.
Altair's gaze slid toward the massive glass door leading out to a glowing pool and a private mini-bar.
"I think I'll need a little motivation to dig into myself," he said.
Vittorio sighed, almost amused, and gestured toward the pool. He went first, his steps slow, deliberate.
Altair slipped his phone out, thumb moving fast.
Open chance.
Kevin saw the text in the ice-cream truck. His breath hitched.
He crossed himself over the photo of him and Altair taped to the monitor.
"God help you, man," he whispered.
"You never struck me as the least observant kid," Vittorio said, strolling toward the bar.
Altair's jaw twitched. "Why'd you say that?"
"When I mentioned you practically don't exist, that should've told you your past wasn't as buried as you hoped. Whoever scrubbed your entire life did it well. Too well." Vittorio poured himself a drink, unfazed.
Altair's fingers curled. "That doesn't matter."
"Oh, it matters plenty."
Altair finally snapped the restraint. He pulled out his handgun and leveled it at the back of Vittorio's skull.
Vittorio didn't flinch—he just smiled and turned around, cigar smoke curling lazily around him. "I figured you'd point that thing at me eventually."
"So you do know who I am."
"Of course. I followed your little saga. Even the suicide attempt twice, the Devil seems to reject you." Vittorio sipped his drink. "Kevin dragged your half-dead body out of that alley. Loyal friend. Good man."
Altair's grip tightened; his breathing got louder, shorter. "So you know why I'm doing this. No hard feelings."
"Revenge," Vittorio said casually. "But tell me—have you thought even one step ahead? After you pull that trigger, then what?"
"I ride off into the sunset." Altair tried to smile, but it came out strained.
Vittorio laughed as he slowly approached. Each step made Altair's shoulders tense, his aim wobbling just a little. "Eric was just like you. Hungry. Angry. A prodigy. Best assassin I ever trained. Then he had to go and… finish in the wrong girl. Really messed up his career."
Altair's nostrils flared. His knuckles whitened around the gun. "Keep your distance." His voice was controlled, but the anger was leaking through
Vittorio raised his hands. "Relax. I'm just saying—kill me, and the entire underbelly of New Lazarus City crawls after you. You? You might survive. But Kevin? His girlfriend? And Selene…" He let the name hang.
That did it.
Altair's lips pulled back in a silent snarl.
Vittorio saw the break in him—stepped in.
In one blur, Vittorio slapped the gun aside. It clattered across marble. Two sharp jabs followed—one to Altair's ribs, one to his jaw. Altair staggered but didn't fall.
He surged forward and kicked Vittorio's shin, then snapped a second kick into the side of his head. Vittorio stumbled—just enough to spark hope. Altair spun, elbow slicing through the air to finish him.
Vittorio dipped under it, smooth as a dancer, and whipped a kick into Altair's skull. Altair crashed to the floor. By the time he blinked the stars away, Vittorio was standing over him with the handgun.
"Well," Vittorio said, amused, "looks like the tables have turned."
He cocked the gun. "Just like your father. Stubborn."
Altair spat blood and grinned through it. "And you'll suffer the same fate."
Vittorio pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked through the night Altair's body jerked and hit the floor hard, sliding a few inches across the polished wood.
Vittorio didn't even glance down. He pressed a button under the bar with the back of his knuckle.
"Daimon, get a cleaning crew in here."
"Yes, boss," came the immediate reply.
"Don't you think you're ending the party a bit early?" Altair's voice floated from behind him.
Vittorio froze.
Altair stood—blood on his shirt, a welt forming on his ribs, but alive. And smiling.
"I knew something was off the moment I pulled up to the gate," Altair said, brushing dust from his suit. "No pat-down. No weapons check. Your guards vanish. You basically invited me to kill you."
He tapped his chest. "So I took a gamble. Switched the bullets for rubber. If you were soft, it would've knocked you out cold. At point-blank, though? Would've gone straight through your skull."
Vittorio exhaled a small, amused laugh. "Clever boy."
"So what now?" he asked.
Altair grinned, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. "Killing you was the priority. But now?" He stepped closer, eyes unblinking. "Now I want to take my time."
Vittorio waved the threat off. "How about this—you build up enough power to kill me without the entire underbelly of New Lazarus City ripping you apart. And in the meantime, I use your… talents to clear out people who might slow you down."
He grabbed his coat from the chair. "A partnership."
Altair scoffed. "You tried this earlier. And then you lied about Selene. You killed her."
Vittorio stopped at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "Is that so? Selene was never worth my bullet, kid." He flicked ash from his cigar. "Daimon will send your money. Welcome to the Constantine family."
He walked out.
The poolside went dead silent.
Altair stood there, trembling. Blood dripped from his jaw onto the pristine floor. His breathing grew louder, heavier—each inhale a warning.
Then the dam broke.
He roared and emptied the handgun into the bar—bottles exploding into a shower of glass and liquor. Flames crawled up the shelves, catching fast.
"I had him," Altair shouted, voice cracking with fury.
"I fucking had him!"
New Lazarus City Police Department
The Detectives' Office was a cramped glass-walled box tucked into the corner of the precinct—paperwork stacked to the ceiling, a map of New Lazarus riddled with red pins, and a faint smell of burnt coffee clinging to the air.
Detective Marcus Vey sat behind his cluttered desk, two open files in front of him. He looked up at the two young women standing across from him.
"To think the top two rookies ended up in New Lazarus," Vey said, his tone dry but impressed.
"Yes, sir. It's an honor to work with you," the first rookie blurted out—bright, energetic. Her long black hair swung side to side as she tried and failed to hide her excitement. Her emerald eyes practically glowed.
Beside her, the second woman tightened her grip on the first's hand. Her police cap hung crookedly on her long auburn hair, hazel eyes steady and unimpressed.
Maggie leaned over and mouthed, "Alice, get your shit together."
Vey lifted the first file.
"Alice Monroe. Best rookie to graduate from the academy in six years. You even broke my best officer's record."
Alice went stiff and nodded like her neck barely worked.
Maggie shook her head, muttering under her breath.
Vey opened the second file.
"Margrette Robinson. Let me guess—being her best friend, she bullied you into being exceptional too?"
"Not really," Maggie said. "I'm just here to keep her from setting the building on fire."
"You don't say." Vey closed both files.
He leaned back. "From your records, I'd say you're two gifted officers with bright futures. So let me ask you this: what exactly do you plan on achieving in a city like this?"
Alice spoke first, without hesitation.
"To bring justice to New Lazarus City."
Vey raised an eyebrow. "And what do you think justice is? Do you think justice is what a city built on blood actually needs?"
"Yes," Alice answered firmly. "I want a place where people can walk freely without fear."
Vey's gaze shifted to Maggie. "And you, Margaret?"
She shrugged. "Honestly… I'm just here to support her weird crusade."
"So, a superhero and her sidekick," Vey muttered.
He tapped the map behind him. "New Lazarus' crime rate climbs every year. If Gotham existed, it would beg this city for mercy."
Alice met his eyes, refusing to flinch. "I'm prepared to bring justice to New Lazarus City."
---
Meanwhile
Inside an abandoned steel factory on the outskirts, the air was thick with rust, oil, and rot. A single floodlight flickered over a man tied to a chair. His fingers were gone. His white shirt had turned a soaked, sticky crimson. His eyes were barely open.
Across from him, a heavily tattooed man wrapped rope around his fists, knotting them with slow, practiced movements.
"I—I'm sorry, Rico," the broken man stammered. "I didn't know this was your turf."
Rico approached with a casual shrug. "I know, man. This isn't personal."
He crouched, staring into the man's fading eyes.
"This is a statement. I have to send a message. Especially to those bastards—you know exactly who I'm talking about." Rico's smile sharpened. "Your boss. Vittorio Constantine. He steals from us like he's starving. So this?" He grabbed the man's head. "This is on him."
Rico stood and drove his fists into the man's face—swift, brutal, mechanical. Blood spilled with every hit. By the time Rico stopped, the man sounded like he was drowning in his own blood.
Rico whistled.
Out of the shadows, five massive pitbulls trotted in, muscles rippling under their coats.
"I left him a little alive," Rico said, stepping aside. "Just how you boys like 'em."
The dogs lunged, ripping into the man's flesh, tearing him apart piece by piece. Rico snapped a picture, admiring his work.
He grinned.
"The Dog always bites back."