The television screen burned.Not with the fire that had consumed the DeLuca Research Center, but with the image of it—looping, relentless, inescapable. Across Italy, from the cramped apartments of Naples to the penthouses of Rome, the same footage played: flames erupting from the mountain’s belly, smoke rising like a curse, the once-imposing structure collapsing into itself as if the earth had opened its mouth and swallowed sin whole.“This is Chiara Marchetti, reporting live,” the anchor said, her voice steady but laced with something deeper—fear. “We are receiving confirmation from Lombard emergency services that the DeLuca Research Center has been completely destroyed in what officials are calling a ‘catastrophic internal fire.’ There was no explosion. No gas leak and no prior warnings. Just fire—sudden, violent, and contained entirely within the lower levels.”The screen split. On one side, aerial drone footage showed the smoldering ruin, blackened steel beams jutting from the wre

The darkness in the penthouse was absolute.Not just the absence of light—but a living thing, thick and suffocating, pressing against Adrian’s skin like a shroud. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. The fire at the research center still burned behind his eyes, but it wasn’t the only flame. Another one flickered deeper—older—more vicious.Her.Isabella.She came to him now not as memory, but as presence—a ghost wrapped in smoke and silence, stepping through the years like she’d never left.He saw her again—really saw her—not in the photo on his desk, not in the polished lies of the DeLuca estate, but in that filthy Genoa tenement, snow falling outside like ash, the walls sweating damp, the air thick with mildew and despair.He was nine. Shivering under a thin blanket. She sat by the window, mending a dress—her fingers trembling, her face gaunt, shadows beneath her eyes so deep they looked bruised. There was no food and no heat. Just the quiet hum of hunger.Then the knock.Three raps. It was har

The morning light slanted through the tall, arched windows of Banca Nobile, gilding the marble floors in pale gold. The air smelled of polished wood, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic tang of vaults buried deep beneath the building. A soft piano piece played from hidden speakers—Chopin, something melancholic but refined.At the front desk, Signora Loxley adjusted her pearl necklace as she handed a receipt to a banker in a navy suit. “Thank you, Clive. My husband will be so pleased—the villa in Portofino is finally paid in full.”Clive smiled, all teeth and practiced warmth. “Of course, signora. Your account has been impeccable. We’re honored to serve your family.”She left, heels clicking against stone, clutching her leather portfolio like it held sacred texts.Near the private consultation rooms, two employees whispered behind a potted olive tree.“Did you see the transfer last night?” one murmured, adjusting his tie. “Two hundred million euros. Moved from Malta to Zurich in u

The air in Riccardo Marchesi’s office had turned thick—like blood cooling in a gutter.Adrian stood just inside the door, briefcase in hand, eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing traps. Enzo DeLuca rose from the leather couch, his smirk still in place, but something darker flickered behind his eyes. Surprise. Fear? No—Enzo wasn’t afraid. But he was calculating.He stepped forward, adjusting the gold chain around his neck, his movements slow, theatrical.“Hmmmmm,” Enzo drawled, voice dripping with false charm. “If it isn’t the city’s favorite bastard.”Adrian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just tilted his head slightly, a cold amusement curling at the edge of his lips.“Good to see you too… brother.”The word hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot.Riccardo froze mid-sip of Amarone. “What?” He looked between them. “Brother? What the hell are you talking about?”Enzo shot him a sharp look—cold, warning. “Not your business, Riccardo. Some things aren’t for politicians to unde

The house now stank of gunpowder, blood, and shattered glass.Adrian sat on the edge of what was left of his bar, shirt torn, chest heaving, one hand pressed to the deep gash along his arms. Blood seeped between his fingers—dark, slow, not arterial, but bad enough. Marco knelt beside him, pressing a wad of gauze to the cut on his forearm, cursing in thick Neapolitan under his breath.“Strunz, you move like a dead man,” Marco muttered. “Next time, don’t play hero. Just shoot first.”Adrian didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath his skin. Pain flared with every breath, but his eyes—those bottomless black pits—were clear, focused and calculating.Dante stood by the bodies again, scanning the bodies with a thermal imager. No trackers and no comms.“How did you even get here?” Adrian asked, voice low, strained.Marco looked up. “We didn’t know about the assassins. But Dante here…” He jerked a thumb at the hacker. “Got a feeling.”Dante didn’t turn. “After the m