The nightclub in Naples throbbed with bass and neon, the kind of place where mafia deals often hid behind champagne bottles and half-naked dancers. Tonight, though, it was a stage—and every actor knew their lines could mean life or death.

Enzo stood in the shadows of the private balcony, cigarette smoke curling around him. Below, the floor was alive with bodies, but his attention was locked on one man: Marco.

Bruised, trembling, but dressed sharp in a suit Enzo had chosen for him. The boy looked every inch a soldier about to sell his king.

“Are you sure he’ll pull it off?” Dante muttered, leaning on the railing beside Enzo....