The war ended not with a single gunshot, but with a phone call at 3:47 a.m. on a rain-slicked night in late March.
Angel stood in the war room of the new compound—former vineyard estate outside Naples—surrounded by maps, screens, and the low hum of encrypted comms.
Eight men moved around her like planets orbiting a star: Rafael at the head table barking orders into a headset, Augustine pacing with a tablet showing live drone feeds, Gabriel hunched over three laptops simultaneously cracking the last of the rival syndicate’s financial firewalls, Jax cleaning blood from his knuckles in the corner, Romeo reloading magazines with mechanical precision, Leo stitching a gash on Mark’s forearm, Nico quietly wiping down blades, and Silas sketching tactical positions on a digital pad even now.
The
