Across town in Vibo Valentia, the dimly lit warehouse buzzed with tension, De Marco’s men were gearing up, weapons being checked, radios crackling to life. The night reeked of gasoline, sweat, and danger.

Inside his office, Drake De Marco paced like a caged animal, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke coiling above his head in angry spirals.

“Where’s that moron Rossi?” he barked, slamming his hand on the desk hard enough to rattle the glass ashtray.

“He hasn’t come back yet, ...