The Munich National Theatre was a cathedral of gold leaf and velvet, currently teeming with the most dangerous men in Europe. Members of the Commission sat in tiered boxes, their bored expressions masking the panic of the Vatican fallout. They were waiting for a sign—a leader to follow or a scapegoat to kill.
Alessandro Romano stepped from the shadows of the grand foyer, his presence hitting the room like a sudden drop in cabin pressure. He wore a tuxedo tailored with the precision of a scalpel, his wounded shoulder held rigid by sheer willpower. He didn't wait for an introduction. He walked down the center aisle of the stalls, the clicking of his heels on the marble the only sound in the sudden silence.
"The rumors of my demise," Alessandro projected, his voice a smooth, lethal baritone
