The villa’s underground cellar wasn’t made for wine. It was made for war.

Concrete walls dripped with condensation. A single bulb swayed overhead, throwing harsh light across the Russian lieutenant chained to a steel chair. His face was battered, lip split, one eye already swelling shut. Blood dripped slowly from his nose onto the cold floor.

Enzo stood in front of him, silent, expression carved from stone. Beside him, Luca leaned lazily against the wall, twirling a knife between his fingers like a bored predator. Matteo sat at a small table, a ledger open, pen in hand, recording every word.

And then there was Elena.

She descended the cellar steps...