ANTONIO
Late afternoon shadows stretched across the dark mahogany floor of my private study. Sitting behind the heavy desk, I poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass.
The estate was quiet, but it was a deceptive, fragile silence. We were still actively bleeding resources from the Calabrian border strikes, and my patience was wearing dangerously thin.
A sharp, distinct knock sounded at the heavy wooden doors.
"Enter," I commanded, setting the crystal glass down on a leather coaster.
Dante, one of my most trusted undercover soldiers, slipped into the room and closed the doors securely behind him. He did not wear the standard estate security uniform. Instead, he wore a sharp gray suit, allowing him to blend seamlessly into the corporate districts of Rome. I had assigned
