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I know the storm is coming before I hear the first thunderclap.

Vittorio’s text arrives at 3:17 AM: Done. No witnesses. East warehouse cleared.

The words glow in the darkness of my temporary quarters at the De Angelis estate, confirmation that I’m one step closer to destroying Giancarlo’s empire. The shipment—twenty million in pure cocaine—is now at the bottom of the harbor. A critical blow to the Calviño-De Angelis wedding alliance, and the first public move in my decades-long chess game.

I delete the message, then rest my head against the cool wall behind my bed. Sleep won’t come tonight. Not with my thoughts consumed by the knowledge that four hours from now, all hell will break loose.

And not with my mind constantly drifting to Isadora—to her emerald eyes filled with dangerous understanding, to her soft lips that whispered my real name yesterday. Stefano. The sound of it in her voice awakened something I’ve kept buried for twenty years.

She’s sleeping just down a few halls away, a temptation and a complication I never anticipated. Being stationed in her family home—assigned to protect her until the wedding—is its own special form of torture.

My phone buzzes again. Another message from Vittorio: De Angelis lieutenant asking questions at docks. Timeline moved up.

The storm isn’t arriving at dawn. It’s already here.

I dress quickly, checking my weapons out of habit. The Beretta slides into my shoulder holster, a comforting weight. The knife straps to my ankle. Tools of my trade—the trade that won me Giancarlo’s trust, that positioned me perfectly to witness his downfall.

I’ve barely finished dressing when my phone rings. Antonio De Angelis himself. At 3:30 in the morning, this can only mean one thing.

“Gravano,” I answer, keeping my voice professional despite knowing exactly why he’s calling.

“Come to my study immediately,” Antonio barks, then hangs up.

I exit my room, scanning the darkened hallway out of habit. As I make my way, my gaze lingers momentarily on Isadora’s door as I pass through her wing. So close, yet completely forbidden, especially now.

I’m halfway down the grand staircase when I hear the shouting. Luca’s voice, sharp and furious, echoes through the marble foyer. He’s at the De Angelis estate earlier than expected, which means he already knows about the shipment.

“Where is he?” he demands, barking at one of Antonio’s guards. “Get Gravano down here. Now!”

I adjust my tie, smooth my expression into neutral detachment, and descend the remaining stairs with measured steps. “Mr. Calviño,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I understand there’s a situation.”

Luca whips around, his face contorted with rage. In the harsh overhead lighting, I can see the same traits of Giancarlo—the same cruel mouth, the same cold calculation behind his eyes.

“You,” he snarls, advancing toward me. “Where were you tonight?”

I don’t flinch as he invades my personal space. “Here, at the De Angelis estate. My quarters are in the east wing.” A truth that serves my lie—I was indeed in the estate, though my absence for two crucial hours will never be documented thanks to the security system I temporarily disabled.

“Convenient,” Luca sneers.

“What’s happened?” I ask, though I know exactly what’s unfolding.

The door to Antonio’s study opens, and two of the most powerful men in New York’s underworld emerge. Antonio De Angelis leads, still in his evening suit, face ashen with fury. Behind him follows Giancarlo—silver hair immaculate despite the hour, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that suggests he came straight from a late business meeting.

“Someone hit the shipment,” Antonio says, his voice tight with controlled fury. “Twenty million, gone. My men found the trucks abandoned at the harbor. Cargo missing.”

I allow my expression to register appropriate shock. “When?”

“Approximately midnight,” Antonio continues. “My security detail was found unconscious—not dead, curiously.”

Not dead because I explicitly ordered Vittorio to avoid casualties. Dead men create investigations. Unconscious men create humiliation—and suspicion between allies.

Giancarlo’s eyes scan the foyer, taking in each face with predatory assessment. “Let’s continue this in your study,” he says to Antonio with the deadly calm that has made men tremble for decades. “The four of us.”

I follow them into the wood-paneled sanctuary of Antonio’s power, noting the way Luca glances over his shoulder at me, suspicion radiating from him in waves. The air smells of expensive bourbon and leather—the De Angelis signature scent, different from the cognac and cigar smoke that permeates Giancarlo’s office. I’ve been in both sanctums, and they don’t even know it.

“This was a calculated move,” Giancarlo says once the door closes behind us. “Timed perfectly to disrupt our alliance before the wedding.”

Antonio paces near the fireplace. “The Bianchi family, perhaps? They’ve been looking to expand into our territory for years.”