Alessandro stood at the head of the mahogany table, black suit crisp, jaw carved in stone. He didn’t look like a grieving father. He looked like an executioner preparing his blade.

Around him, the war council assembled. Capos in tailored suits. Lawyers who doubled as launderers. Fixers with blood still under their nails. Soldiers fresh from the streets. They filled the room, their silence thick, waiting.

On the wall, surveillance feeds flickered—safehouses, shipping docks, warehouses from ...