The Mediterranean dusk was shattered by explosions.Gold-and-black Marchesi shipping containers went up in flame at the Corsican dock, their rows igniting like torches under a red sky. An elite Viking-style yacht with Marchesi insignia sank within minutes, tilting grotesquely before taking on water. Shipping logs and papers instantly degraded within the inferno.Near the dock’s edge, Anton watched by the perimeter fence, throat dry, breathing harsh. "That’s not a raid," he murmured into his comms. "It's a precision sabotage."A second explosion caused Anton to stagger sideways. A splintered steel girder clanged overhead—brushed him—but he stayed steady, raising his pistol, alerting Matteo off-screen: "Two packages. Man down. Someone knows exactly what they want."Within minutes, firefights erupted between local Corsican guards and shadowy saboteurs in unmarked tactical gear. The blaze cut smoke rings into the sky; halogen spotlights bounced between wreckage and waterline.As heat wave
Dawn mist curled around the perimeter fence as Seraphina Vale crouched alongside Lucien Marchesi at the edge of the gravel access road. A black unmarked van idled behind them, thirty of Lucien’s best men strapped into armored gear. Their breath drifted in the cold air.The uplink facility hovered ahead in near-total silence: three low-slung hangars, a satellite array rising like skeletal fingers, and five guarded guard towers no taller than shipping containers. To reach it, they would cross the short stretch of open ground under those towers.“We bought you forty minutes before the towers rotate,” Anton whispered, checking his timer. “After that—they’ll ping. Then all hell breaks loose.”Seraphina leaned forward, pressing her hand on his arm. “We’ll be in and out before then.”Lucien gave a firm nod. “Stay sharp.”He flicked his earpiece. “Alpha move.”The front doors swung open on cue. The Marchesi men slipped into the hangars like smoke—tight and unseen—while Seraphina and Lucien ad
The first clue came not from bullets or broken alliances—but from silence.The Marchesi war room was quiet at dawn, even though the board glowed with a hundred flashing lights—unusual activity in Europe’s shadow network. Lucien hovered over the console, flicking through encrypted channels.“Every syndicate’s splintering,” Matteo said, standing behind him. “Dell’s rumored with Ciro and Cristiano again. Julian’s off on one of his rented bays. Isolde’s still in the Beretti vaults, pulling Mercer-front material from Florence.”Lucien nodded. “All moving—chaos in motion is still movement.”Seraphina entered quietly, carrying a stack of intelligence briefs. She glanced at the map. Flecks of red, blue, black, purple—each color a fractured remnant of the old alliance.“Tell Robert,” she whispered, “to activate the Corsican relay. And initiate the Baltic over-watch.”Lucien turned to her. “Already done.”Seraphina placed the files down in front of him. “But this—this is different.”Across the
The quiet that fell over the Marchesi estate in the days that followed was the kind of silence Lucien had only read about in books—mythic, fleeting, the breath drawn before a storm breaks the sky.Across Europe, the shattered alliance between Isolde, Dell, Julian, Gabe, Ciro, and Cristiano had imploded into distrust and maneuvering. Assassination attempts. Disappeared couriers. Poisoned shipments. Lucien hadn’t lifted a finger since the fall of Adriana, and yet his enemies tore at each other like rabid dogs fighting over scraps of a feast they no longer had the stomach to eat.In the world of mafia politics, it was a kind of divine comedy. And Lucien? He played the quiet conductor of peace.Peace—however temporary—was a weapon too.And Lucien Marchesi knew how to wield it.The estate thrived under the truce.Vineyards bloomed again with disciplined workers returning to their posts. Trade routes that had once been guar
The room was warm, firelight casting amber across the polished wood floor of Isolde Beretti’s Montenegrin estate. On the far side of the chamber, she stood with her back to the door, her silhouette framed by tall windows that looked down over the river valley.Julian Cristoff stepped inside, his weapon drawn but held low—uncertain, wary.The door clicked shut behind him."Julian," Isolde said, her voice smooth, without fear. "I was wondering how long it would take before you crawled through my threshold with questions.""You set her up," Julian snapped. "You left Adriana out there to die."Isolde turned slowly, her expression one of cold amusement. "I gave her every chance. She chose loyalty to a sinking ship instead of learning to swim. I didn’t kill her, Julian. You did. You and that brittle male ego of yours."He raised the pistol slightly. "You think I won't pull this trigger?""I think you’d be a fool to try."She didn’t f
The black vans moved in silence through the fog-draped valleys of Montenegro. Their engines were cut a half-mile before the drop point. One by one, over fifty operatives—Lucien's most elite—exited with suppressed rifles and dark uniforms. They melted into the mist, phantoms without a trace.At dawn, the camp emerged through the haze: a half-dozen tents, a central fire pit, a perimeter of minimal guard posts. This was Adriana's hidden base—temporary, improvisational, and ripe for taking.Lucien stood at the edge of a wooded clearing, eyes sharp behind his night-vision gear. His earpiece crackled:“Team Alpha in position.”“Bravo secured the ridge.”“Charlie on fire watch.”He nodded. Across the rolled map, he'd personally marked the escape routes, the med tent, the armory. Every detail.“Wait for my signal,” he whispered.When the first light of morning woke the encam