The Mediterranean breeze blew low, carrying the sharp, cold scent of sea salt that contrasted with the heat radiating from the private jets parked on the Amalfi coast runway.
In the distance, the Aegean Monarch yacht sat like a floating palace, cutting through the darkness of the night with its thousands of crystal lights. The vessel was more than just a party venue. It was a five-hundred-million-dollar steel fortress floating atop the darkest sins of the world's elite.
Mateo Rossi stood before a large mirror in the dressing cabin of an exclusive boutique at the private port, smoothing the collar of a midnight blue handmade tuxedo that felt foreign against his skin.
The silk-wool fabric draped perfectly over his broad shoulders, concealing the gunshot wound that had just begun to heal
