The storm rolled in over Palermo that night, thunder cracking across the sky. Rain pounded the windows of the De Luca estate, drumming against the glass like impatient fingers. Inside, the air was no calmer, tension stretched thin through every hallway, every room.
The knock came soft but firm. “Boss?”It was Marco, one of his oldest lieutenants. Alessandro didn’t turn. “Come in.”&
The storm rolled in over Palermo that night, thunder cracking across the sky. Rain pounded the windows of the De Luca estate, drumming against the glass like impatient fingers. Inside, the air was no calmer, tension stretched thin through every hallway, every room.
The morning sun spilled through the high windows of the De Luca estate, but it brought no warmth to Lorenzo. His body was awake, but his spirit dragged heavy behind him. He hadn’t slept—how could he, with Franco’s threat gnawing at every thought?
The night pressed down heavy on the De Luca estate, the air thick with the scent of lemon trees and salt drifting from the sea. Lorenzo sat alone in the courtyard, the stone bench cold beneath him, his fingers tightening around the glass of brandy he hadn’t touched.
The study was heavy with cigar smoke, the sharp scent curling into Mateo’s lungs. Ricardo Cruz leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of whiskey, his hawk-like eyes fixed on Mateo as though reading every twitch of muscle beneath his skin.
The dungeon smelled of damp stone and rusted iron.The walls dripped with water, the chains clinked whenever he shifted, and rats scurried in the shadows.