The villa slept under moonlight, its walls of stone glowing pale silver. Guards patrolled the grounds, weapons glinting as they moved like shadows along the perimeter.

Inside, the halls were quiet—except for the storm of whispers that brewed in Enzo Vitale’s war room.

Maps lay spread across the table, red pins marking Naples, Palermo, and now Moscow. Enzo leaned over the table, his storm-gray eyes burning, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. Elena stood opposite him, in a silk robe, firelight painting her face with shades of gold and scarlet.

“We can’t underestimate him,” she said softly, but firmly. “Volkov isn’t a man who plays fair. He’ll test us before...