The war council wasn’t held in some marble hall with velvet drapes and crystal chandeliers.
It was in the back of a butcher’s shop in Little Sicily—meat hooks swaying from the ceiling, bloodstains on the tile, and the scent of iron thick in the air.
Fitting, really.
Dante wanted blood?
He'd get it.
Nico kicked the door closed behind us as Luca slammed down the crate of burner phones and blueprints. Matteo flicked the safety off his gun and placed it calmly beside the butcher’s block.
All of us still soaked to the bone, steam rising off our skin like the ghosts of the men we’d already buried.
“Someone tipped him off,” Matteo said. “He knew when we’d come, where we’d enter, how long it’d take to breach.”
“He’s got moles,” Nico said, voice low and lethal. “Probably in the police, mayb
