A few hours earlier, a long time after the clock had chimed two in the morning, there was a movement in the street.

...

At this hour of night, the narrow alley on one side of the hotel was cloaked in shadows. The walls of old stone houses pressed in on either side, their plaster cracked and weather-stained, ivy creeping along the edges. A faint smell of diesel and stale tobacco lingered in the still air.

The Don’s men were shadows in flesh—silent, watchful, and lethal when needed. Each one carried the weight of quiet violence, the kind that didn’t need to be advertised. They weren’t flashy or loud. These...