The warehouse reeked of oil, sweat, and iron. Floodlights burned overhead, casting sharp shadows across the line of soldiers kneeling before Enzo Romano.

Every man had a knife in one hand and a candle in the other.

Luca stood at Enzo’s right, his face a mask of cold indifference. At Enzo’s left, Matteo, his consigliere, held a leather-bound ledger filled with names written in crimson ink.

This wasn’t a meeting. It was a test.

“Stand,” Enzo commanded, his voice echoing like a judge’s gavel.

The first man rose, eyes wary, posture stiff.

Enzo studied him with the patience of a predator. “You swear loyalty to me, to Elena, to this...