The warehouse in Vibo Valentia smelled of oil and old gin, a place where men forgot their consciences and learned to trade them for power. Drake De Marco sat at his desk, a bottle of gin sweating beads in the dim light, the label long since forgotten. He tapped his fingers on the polished mahogany, each beat a measured promise of ruin.

“Bring me, Fabrizio,” he ordered without looking up.

Pablo Fabrizio arrived like a man carrying his own sentence, nervous, too-smooth suit, eyes flickering ...