The air in Naples didn't just feel cold; it felt electric, charged with the kind of ozone that precedes a devastating storm. While I was stumbling through the labyrinthine streets of the historic district, Luciano Costa was turning the city into a graveyard.
In the villa, the silence was a weapon. Luciano stood in the center of the library, the brass grate from the ventilation shaft lying at his feet like a discarded shell. He didn't scream. He didn't throw things. He simply stood there, his breathing shallow, his eyes reflecting a void that could swallow the sun.
"Don Costa," Marco’s voice crackled through the doorway, hesitant. "The perimeter was breached from the inside. She used the old service tunnels."
Luciano didn't turn around. "I want every camera in a five-mile radius scrubbed
