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“Bellandi,” Riccardo hums, looking away.

“I am not certain, Riccardo, don’t make me punch you,” Alfio snaps.

I nod. “Rotate crew leads. Bring in new drivers under dummy contracts and stagger their onboarding. Don’t let anyone get too comfortable with their team for a while. Keep things shifting.”

Alfio gives a small nod and goes back to his plate.

“Nightlife’s bleeding,” Enzo cuts in, leaning on his elbow. “Ferri’s crew’s undercutting the liquor imports again. Cheap knockoff stuff flooding clubs—some venues are flipping, others are watching us lose ground.”

“Start buying up the lower-end stock under a shell company,” I say. “Push the price up artificially. Then flood the market with our own supply at just under their cost.”

Enzo lets out a low whistle, impressed. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

“I’ve been thinking for four years. That’s a lot of time to sharpen the blade.”

Omero clears his throat softly. “We’ve had signal disruptions at the east docks. Not often, but precise. Drone activity, possibly infrared scrambling.”

“Do we have visual confirmation?”

“Nothing clear. But there’s a pattern.”

“Flag every spike from the last three months. Filter out interference. Run the anomalies against recent security crew rotations. I want to know if we have a leak.”

Omero nods once, already mentally processing.

I turn to Riccardo next. “And?”

He shrugs, chewing slowly before replying. “Collections are slowing. Street-level discipline’s slipping. Some of the younger capos are getting sloppy. They’re too comfortable.”

“Remind them who built the road they’re walking on,” I say. “Quietly. Pick one of them—preferably one with a mouth—and make an example.”

Riccardo’s eyes gleam slightly, satisfaction in them.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Do it clean,” I add. “I’m not cleaning up egos right now.”

An eeriness settles again—not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. The kind that comes when everyone knows what needs to be done.

I lean back in my chair, wiping my mouth with a cloth napkin. “Have the files ready by tomorrow.”

Alfio glances up. “Which ones?”

“Operations Ledger, Surveillance Reports, Internal Account Audits, and I want crew rotation schedules, logistics manifests, and the last six months of encrypted comms from front managers.”

“Anything else?” Enzo mutters, half-smiling. “Would you like us to handwrite it on parchment?”

“Only if you have time after sweeping the rats out of the clubs,” I say, and the corners of his mouth twitch wider.

“Va bene, boss,” he chuckles. “I’ll send it all by morning.”

Alfio studies me for a moment. “You sure you don’t want a day to rest?”

“I’ve been resting for four years.”

None of them argue again.

But I see it in their eyes—they are relieved I’m back.