The air in the villa pulsed with tension, every corridor humming with quiet urgency. Guards moved with precision, their steps sharp, their gazes harder than steel. Palermo was waking to whispers of war, and everyone knew the Vitale empire would not take its wounds in silence.

Enzo stood in the war room, his fingers pressed against the polished mahogany table. A city map sprawled before him, dotted with pins that marked Bratva-controlled businesses—fronts for drugs, guns, and blood. His storm-gray eyes flicked from point to point, calculating, dissecting.

Dante lounged against the wall, cigarette smoke curling lazily around him. “So what’s it going to be? A bullet in the dark,...