The warehouse on the outskirts of Naples had once been a cigarette smuggling hub, now repurposed into something more sinister....a private war room for families that had refused to bend the knee. Inside, beneath the flickering amber lights, five figures surrounded a metal table marked with bullet dents and wine stains. A new alliance was forming one that rejected both the Lockwood name and the legacy of Cassiel Dain.
"They've grown weak," muttered Angelo Verratti, his voice thick with disdain. "Adrian plays house with a De Luca girl, and Cassiel… she prays to ghosts."
Beside him, Raffaele Di Santi lit a cigar. "And yet they still hold Naples, Manhattan, and half of Marseille."
"For now," came the cold voice of Alessandra Crane, draped in mourning black. Her son had died in the last Lock
