The morning was gray.
The storm had passed, but the sky still looked heavy.
Lorenzo sat in his study, curtains half open, cigarette burning slow.
He hadn’t slept.
His mind replayed the gunfire from the warehouse, the screams, the smell of smoke, the faces of his men who didn’t return.
He stared at the map on his desk.
Three red circles marked the docks, the east yard, and the Silver Room.
All gone.
He gave the order, but still, something felt wrong.
Someone else was moving at the same time — silent, fast, unseen.
The door opened.
Matteo walked in first, followed by Franco, Nico, Enzo, and Silvio.
Their coats were damp. Their faces were hard.
They looked like men who came from a long night.
Lorenzo looked up slowly.
“You’re late,” he said.
Matteo said, “We checked every site
