Dante
The Caruso estate had transformed into a fortress overnight. Trucks roared in the courtyard, soldiers rushed through the halls, radios crackled on every floor. What had been a house of family was now a war camp, and everyone knew why.
Serafina.
I stood at the centre of the war room, jaw tight, hands braced on the table as maps, feeds, and reports piled up in front of me. Adriano was opposite me, his expression carved from stone. Don Caruso sat at the head, commanding without raising his voice, every word treated like gospel.
“Talk to me,” the Don said, eyes on his son.
Adriano leaned forward, stabbing a finger against the map of the city spread across the table. “We traced Costa’s car east. Traffic cameras caught it at three intersections before it disappeared into black
