The silence in the villa that night wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp, humming, like a blade hovering above flesh.

Elena sat in Enzo’s study, the heavy oak desk between them littered with maps, files, and half-empty glasses of whiskey. But neither of them was looking at the papers. Their focus was on the single photograph Dante had laid down an hour earlier.

A man in his forties, slick dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that always seemed too quick to look away. Don Vittorio Calderone’s cousin. A minor figure in the Calabrian syndicate. A man who had slipped away from the villa’s gathering before the toasts ended.

A man Dante...