Dawn painted the horizon in strokes of amber and crimson as Dante arrived at the port. The salty breeze wove through the damp wooden docks, mingling with the distant cries of seagulls and the bustle of workers unloading crates of cargo. Flanked by a few of his most trusted men, he walked with measured purpose toward an old warehouse where members of the ’Ndrangheta and a group of Albanian traffickers awaited him. It was a delicate meeting—a new route for smuggling arms was on the table, and any misstep could come at a high price.

Meanwhile, back at the villa, Svetlana was getting ready for her first Italian lesson. Dante had left precise instructions to ensure she lacked for nothing in his absence, making sure her day was thoroughly occupied. But just as she was about to leave, she was intercepted by Mirella, Dante’s mother.

“Come with me,” the woman said firmly, leaving no room for protest.

Svetlana hesitated for a second, then nodded. She followed Mirella down a long hallway bathed