Enzo
The tactical maps of Palermo were spread across the mahogany surface of my private study, illuminated by the harsh, yellow glow of a single desk lamp. Outside, the night sky was jet-black, the estate dead quiet save for the soft hum of the perimeter security monitors.
I hadn't slept in over thirty hours. My shoulder throbbed where the Moretti bullet had grazed the flesh, but the physical pain was a distant noise compared to the rage burning in my chest.
"Alessio," I called out, not looking up from the documents. "Hand me the manifest for the harbor patrol."
Silence answered me.
I looked up. Alessio was standing near the grand arched window, staring out toward the east wing of the estate—toward the guest room where Nerissa was staying. He had been like this all morning: distracted
