The first strike hit Sydney. Then Dubai. Then Milan. By sunrise, Valenti assets across three continents were bleeding.
Lorenzo stood in Adrian’s war room with three phones buzzing, a tablet open to live feeds, and blood on his cuff that wasn’t his. “It’s coordinated,” he said grimly. “Not Orsini-style chaos. Pack-style pressure. Hit supply lines, disrupt cashflow, force panic.”
Adrian stared at the screens without blinking. His expression was carved from stone, but Calla could feel the wolf inside him prowling—angry, restrained, itching to tear something apart.
Calla sat at the long table, her hands folded, her throat still sore where the mark pulsed faintly with every new update. The bond vibrated like a warning system.
A shipping yard in flames. A convoy ambushed. A warehouse raided
