The warehouse smelled like rust and broken promises.Santino Leandro stood over the man tied to the chair. Tom's face was a mess of bruises and blood, but his eyes still held that desperate gleam of hope. They always did, until the very end."Please," Tom wheezed through split lips. "I got kids, Santino. Two little girls.""I know." Santino pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, as he lit it with steady hands. "Seven and nine years old. Anna and Sofia."Tom's face went white. "You wouldn't""Relax." Santino exhaled smoke toward the warehouse rafters. "I'm not my father." The relief in Tom's eyes was pathetic to watch."But you still have to die.""Wait, wait!" Tom strained against the ropes. "I can fix this. I can make it right.""How?""The money. I still have half of it. And I can give you names. The Albanians who approached me. Their contacts. Everything."Santino took another drag, considering this. "Go on.""Dragan Petrov. He runs the drug trade through the eastern ports. H

Sixteen years ago, NaplesSantino's stomach growled. It had been two days since his last meal. The bread he'd stolen from the market was long gone.He crouched behind a dumpster, watching the pharmacy across the street. The old man who owned it always left the back door unlocked during lunch. Always counted his pills the same way. Always made the same mistakes.Santino had been watching for weeks. Learning and Planning.The old man locked the front door and walked away during Lunch time.Santino moved fast as he slipped through the alley, he tried the back door as it was unlocked Just like always.Inside, the pharmacy smelled like medicine and old paper. Santino knew what he was looking for. The expensive stuff. Pills that sold fast on the street.He filled his pockets. OxyContin. Percocet. Adderall. Enough to eat for a month."What the hell are you doing?" A voice rang out as Santino spun around. A woman stood in the doorway. The pharmacist's daughter. He'd seen her before but she

Rain hammered the narrow Naples alley, a relentless drumbeat against the crumbling brick walls. Fourteen-year-old Santino pressed his back into the cold stone, his knife trembling in his grip. Three days he’d watched the apartment from the shadows. Three days since he’d seen that man drag a sobbing child inside, the kid’s cries were swallowed by the storm. His heart thudded against his ribs, but his jaw tightened with resolve.“Are you sure about this?” Marco whispered, his voice shaky as rainwater streamed from his chin. His eyes darted toward the flickering streetlight at the alley’s end.Santino nodded, his dark eyes narrowing. “I’m sure.”“Cops will” Marco started, his voice barely audible over the downpour. “Cops don’t come here,” Santino cut in, his knuckles whitening around the knife handle. “Nobody does. Not for us.”The apartment door creaked open, and their target stumbled out, swaying like a broken mast. The man fumbled with his zipper, muttering curses, his breath a cloud

The ticket arrived as promised first class to Paris, departing tomorrow night. Tucked inside the envelope were ten thousand euros, crisp and new, along with a note scrawled in sharp ink: For expenses. Come alone. S. Santino sat at his kitchen table, the ticket’s glossy edge glinting under the weak bulb. Salvatore Enzo. The boy who’d bolted from Naples seven years ago, swearing he’d return one day. The friend who’d vanished without a trace, leaving only memories and questions.His phone buzzed, shattering the silence. Vito’s name flashed on the screen. Santino answered with a grunt. “Speak.”“Don’t go,” Vito said, his voice tight, urgent. “It’s a trap, Santino. I feel it.”Santino raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “How do you even know about the ticket?”“Word travels fast,” Vito snapped. “Salvatore Enzo isn’t just running clubs in Paris. He’s El Amore’s right-hand man. You hear me? El Amore’s.”The name hit Santino like a cold wave, sinking deep into his bones. Even in N

The woman in red moved through the crowded club like a shark through water deliberately, dangerous, turning heads but touching no one. Santino watched her approach, cataloging details. Diamond earrings, no other jewelry. Manicured hands, no rings. Eyes that missed nothing."You're staring," she said, stopping before him.Santino didn't blink. "So were you.""I was assessing." Her accent was pure Paris, her smile anything but. "You're Santino Leandro."Not a question. Santino kept his expression neutral. "And you are?""Disappointed." She signaled the bartender, who brought her champagne without being told what she wanted. "Salvatore promised me someone impressive. Instead, I get a street dealer from Naples.""If you know where I'm from, you know I'm more than that.""Are you?" She sipped her drink. "Men always think they're more than they are."Santino studied her. Beautiful, yes, but beauty was common in places like this. Power was the perfume she wore. The easy command, the watchfu