It had been a day since they arrived, and the Adriatic coast already felt both like a refuge and a trap. The air carried salt and pine, sharp and unyielding, pressing against skin and memory alike. The waves hit the cliffs with a steady, insistent rhythm, and the wind whispered across the narrow streets of Vis, Dubrovnik, and Zadar as if warning them that no place, however remote, could hide them forever.Croatia had been chosen not for comfort, not for beauty, but for control. For distance. For the kind of silence that allowed planning without eyes watching, without ears listening. Here, they could disappear, and yet remain vigilant. Every narrow alley, every stone staircase, every balcony offered a vantage point, a chance to see what the world thought it could hide from them.Even in the bright sunlight, danger felt close. The cliffs that plunged into the sea were reminders of the precariousness of their lives, of the edges they had walked for years. Every shadow cast on the white s

Meanwhile, as Adrian and his teams confronted the shadows of their past, peeling back the layers of memory and pain that had long shaped them, another storm was brewing in the hidden corners of Milan. Enzo, who had vanished into the undercurrents of secrecy and fear, was about to face a reckoning far deadlier than any he had ever endured. The streets of Milan, the whispers of betrayal, and the ghosts of his own cruelty had been waiting—but nothing could have prepared him for what awaited behind closed doors, in a place where loyalty and blood were measured with fists and knives, and mercy was a currency he no longer possessed.Deep in the industrial outskirts of Milan, far from the marble halls of Palazzo DeLuca, a concrete tomb stood inside a clandestine building forgotten—a relic from Salvatore's early days, when the family still dealt in bodies instead of boardrooms. No windows. Just a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the blood-stained floor and

The search began at dawn.It was methodical, cold, and patient—the kind of search carried out by men who understood that silence killed faster than guns.Salvatore DeLuca’s orders moved through Milan like a second bloodstream. His men didn’t flood the streets in suits or recognizable faces.His men moved through Milan like ghosts—delivery drivers scanning alleyways between crates of tomatoes, street vendors wiping counters while eyes darted toward café entrances, construction workers hammering steel beams while comms crackled in hidden earpieces. They wore the city like a second skin: the baker with a pistol taped to his thigh beneath his flour-dusted apron, the taxi driver whose rearview mirror reflected not the road but thermal imaging feeds. Every shadow was a threat. Every face was a suspect. Every empty doorway a potential grave.Find Adrian.Find anyone tied to him.Alive or dead—it didn’t mat

Days had stretched into weeks and weeks had blurred into a month since Adrian and his team had left Milan. The city, once vibrant and alive with the noise of commerce and chatter, had grown darker, colder, and more dangerous. Every street corner, every narrow alley, seemed to hide a predator, waiting to pounce. The war between the DeLuca and Valenti families had spiraled into something far BLOODIER than either side had anticipated.The Valenti, sensing weakness after the DeLuca empire had collapsed—banks seized, businesses frozen, assets plundered—believed this was their moment. They believed the DeLuca family —broken by Adrian’s vengeance, stripped of wealth, abandoned by allies, had lost their teeth, their bite dulled by financial ruin, and now it was their turn to dominate, to reassert themselves over years of suppression. They saw weakness and moved in, striking fast, brutal, without hesitation.But the DeLucas didn’t break either.They evolved.From empire to insurgency.For de

Hours passed.No one left.The discussion had not ended.It only softened, melting from sharp strategy into cautious reflection, like men easing their fingers off triggers without lowering the guns completely. The underground depot held their voices gently now, the way stone absorbs sound after enough years of silence.Adrian was speaking again.His voice was steady, measured, calm in the way only men who had stared too long into chaos could manage. He spoke about caution. About patience. About staying where they were until Milan revealed its next move clearly. He spoke of time as a weapon, of restraint as power, of silence as strategy.And Elena found herself watching him, hands folded on the table.She was watching the way his jaw tightened when he spoke of Milan, of blood, of unfinished business and Salvatore. On the small crease between his brows when he thought deeply. There was something distant in his gaze, something wounded but unbroken. Something that always made her chest ac