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The war room inside the DeLuca estate was a world away from the gilded halls and crystal chandeliers of Elena’s past. Gone were the marble floors and silken gowns, the whispered elegance of her upbringing. Here, beneath the harsh overhead lights and constant hum of surveillance equipment, everything felt stripped to its bones—raw, urgent, unflinching. The table at the center of the room was cluttered with maps, dossiers, and half-empty cups of espresso gone cold. A red marker circled a section of the map—southern shipments near the docks—thicker and darker than the others, as if someone had pressed too hard in frustration. Elena stood at the head of the table. No one questioned her authority now. Her voice was low and commanding as she gave updates, flanked by Alessandro’s most trusted
- Writer
