The Rossi safehouse lay in ruins behind them, its flames reduced to a skeleton of blackened beams. The smoke hung heavy over the city, drifting through alleys like a warning. Word would spread fast — too fast.
By the time Adriana and Damian stumbled into the safe quarter of the Moretti district, their clothes were scorched, their bodies battered, but their presence lit the air like a lightning strike. Soldiers emerged from the shadows as if conjured, eyes wide, mouths parting in disbelief.
“Boss…” one whispered.
Another dropped his cigarette, stamping it out with shaking hands. “It’s him. Cristo santo—it’s him.”
Damian’s grip tightened on Adriana’s waist, steadying himself, but his eyes never wavered from the men gathering around them. He stood straighter despite the gash on his temple
