Chapter 1: Lupo
The Tuscan countryside blurs past the bulletproof glass of my Mercedes window, a monotonous stretch of rolling green hills and perfectly lined cypress trees that mean nothing to me. I'm a Naples guy. Give me the raw snarl of the port and the stink of the sea mixed with exhaust fumes. This quiet, rural crap makes my teeth ache.
"I don't care what he thinks he deserves," I snap into the phone, cutting off Emiliano's tired excuse mid-sentence. My chief advisor has been talking for three minutes, and I'm done listening. The knuckles of my right hand, scarred from years back, are white as I grip the phone. "He gets fifteen percent of the port's haul or he gets a bullet in the face. Those are his options. Make him understand that."
"He's asking for twenty-five—"
"Then he's a dead man walking." I pull a cigarette from the pack and light it. I crack the window an inch. The country air rushes in, too clean, too silent. "You tell Mancini that when I hit Florence tonight, he either signs the papers or I burn his business to the ground. Every warehouse. Every truck. Every guy on his payroll will be bleeding in the streets."
Emiliano sighs on the other end. He's been with me long enough to know I don't bluff. "He's got ties in the south—"
"I don't give a damn about his ties." I take a long drag, watching the smoke stream out into the afternoon sun. "His connections won't stop me from burying him. They didn't stop me from taking Salerno. They didn't stop me from buying out the judgesin Rome. And they sure as hell won't stop me from showing him what happens when some local hood tries to cut a deal with me like I'm a cheap street dealer."
"Got it," he says, the respect finally back in his tone.
"I'll be there in two hours. Have the papers ready." I end the call and toss the phone onto the leather seat.
The meeting in Florence is necessary, but a headache. Mancini thinks thirty years in this region makes him boss. He's about to learn he's wrong. I've spent six months setting things up, paying off officials, slipping my guys into his crew, waiting for the right moment to squeeze.
Tonight, he signs over his port operations, or I take them by force. Either way, they're mine by morning.
"How much longer, Dante?" I ask, flicking ash out the window.
My driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. Eight years with me. Ex-military. Steady hands, quiet mouth. Exactly what I need in a guy who knows my routine and where I sleep.
"Another ninety minutes, boss. Maybe less if the roads stay clear."
I grab my phone again, checking messages. My entire operation runs on one thing: fear. The absolute understanding that I'm always three moves ahead and twice as vicious as anyone stupid enough to challenge me. At thirty-seven, I'm the youngest boss in the south, and I didn't get here by being nice.
I got here by being the monster other monsters fear.
The car slows slightly. I glance up.
We've turned off the main highway onto a smaller, rougher road, two lanes, trees crowding in on both sides, the pavement cracked.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"Shortcut, boss," Dante says, eyes on the road. "Wreck on the main highway. Alert popped up a few minutes ago. This saves us half an hour."
I stare at the back of his head. I hate unplanned changes. But Dante's never screwed up a route. Still, my hand drifts to my waistband, where my Beretta rests against my spine. Instinct. The thing that keeps me alive.
The road narrows further, becoming a country path. The sun is lower now, casting long, dark shadows. No other cars. No houses. Just empty countryside that swallows sound.
The car jerks to a violent halt. I'm thrown forward against the seatbelt, my phone clattering. "What the hell—"
"Flat tire, boss!" Dante calls out, his voice tight. "Heard a loud hiss. Rear driver's side."
I swear under my breath. A flat tire. A ridiculous delay. I automatically scan the trees and the deserted road anyway. "Get the spare. Hurry."
Dante's door opens. He gets out, leaving the engine running. I watch his shadow move toward the back of the car.
"Boss, check this out," Dante calls out. "It's shredded. Looks like we hit a chunk of concrete. Can you look at the rear passenger side and see if the rim is damaged? I'm pulling the spare now."
"Fuck." He's pushing me. He knows I want this handled fast. I don't like getting out, but I hate unnecessary delays more.
I pull the Beretta from my waistband, safety off, and hold it low by my hip, shielded by the door.
I open the back passenger door and step out onto the cracked asphalt. I pivot quickly, sweeping the empty woods with myeyes. Nothing. Dante is on the other side of the car, fumbling with the trunk.
