The harbor of Palermo was alive with noise and smoke. Ships groaned as crates of weapons, liquor, and contraband were unloaded under the cover of night. Dockworkers cursed in Sicilian, tossing bundles onto trucks waiting in the shadows.

And in the midst of it all, Viktor Kravchenko moved like a ghost.

He wore no flashy suits, no heavy gold chains—only a worker’s jacket, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His Russian accent was softened, his Italian clipped but believable. To the dockhands, he was just another smuggler with deep pockets and quick hands.

But Viktor was more than that. He was Sergei Volkov’s dagger, and tonight, he was carving...