The vibration of the helicopter was a constant, low-frequency tremor that settled deep in my teeth. We were a dark shadow racing low over the Aegean, thirty minutes out from Paros. The island, visible now as a rising smudge of gray against the twilight horizon, was already crawling with the dark figures of my surgical team and the relentless rage of the Romano triplets.
I sat in the troop cabin, surrounded by monitors showing four distinct feeds: the thermal overlay of the Paros estate, the GPS tracker of the San Vittore feint, the status of Domenico’s air command, and the encrypted communication channel linked directly to him.
“Vova, I am telling you, this is an unacceptable risk,” Domenico’s voice hissed through the headset, strained and tight with professional dread. “We have the loca
