THE air around the Escobar mansion was thick with an eerie calm, the kind that hinted at tension brewing beneath quiet walls. The soft crunch of tires against the gravelled driveway brought life back to the moment as Vincenzo’s black BMW rolled to a stop outside the estate. He stepped out, dressed in a fitted navy suit, sunglasses tucked into his collar, his aura unmistakably that of someone with both charm and quiet authority.

It had been weeks since he arrived in Philadelphia, yet he hadn’t made the courtesy call he always did, his usual visit to the Escobars. That was unlike him. But given the madness that had unfolded...