The Palermo docks were alive with the deafening symphony of heavy machinery and rushing water. Massive shipping containers, painted in the distinct deep blue of the Moretti maritime fleet, were being hoisted into the air by towering cranes.
The brisk, salty wind coming off the Mediterranean whipped through my hair, carrying the sharp scent of diesel and brine.
I stood at the edge of the pier, a tailored black wool coat wrapped tightly around me against the morning chill. I didn't need the medical gauze anymore. My vision was perfect, sharp enough to see the Albanian blockade ships retreating on the distant horizon, chased off by the swift and brutal naval strike I had ordered at dawn.
"Three ships loaded, Donna," Santino's gravelly voice spoke from behind me.
I turned. The old Capo was
