POV: CarmelaThe heavy oak desk in my private study was bare except for a heavy crystal tumbler of scotch and a high-definition surveillance monitor. Outside, the estate grounds lay wrapped in darkness, but inside, every halogen light burned with sharp, clinical precision.I took a slow sip of liquor, letting the amber liquid warm my throat, but it did nothing to soothe the cold, calculated rage settling in my chest.My chief of security, stood beside my leather armchair like an iron pillar, his hands clasped low over his dark suit jacket."Rewind the feed five seconds," I commanded, my voice low and measured, cutting through the hum of the electronic equipment. "Right there. Pause it."On the crisp video feed from the high-end restaurant in central Florence, my son Marco stood up from the dinner table, heading down the carpeted corridor toward the restrooms. A second later, a man sitting alone in a corner booth unfolded himself, stepped into the hallway, and trailed Marco at a discre
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