The room was silent when I entered.

Not out of respect. Out of calculation.

The council sat in a half-moon of velvet chairs, ten of them—each a power in their own right. Crime bosses, smugglers, warlords. Men and women who built their empires on blood and betrayal.

And now, they had summoned me.

Luca stood beside me, a quiet storm in an Armani suit. Matteo flanked my left, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at war.

“You’re late,” said a voice from the center.

Don Domenico. The oldest of them. His skin sagged like melting wax, but his eyes were knives.

“I’m here,” I said coldly. “That’s what...