Stany’s blood went cold. Mario Tessitore had been his best collector. He’d also been the one who, three years ago, had tried to skim from the family accounts. Stany had handled it personally. He remembered Mario’s last words: “One day, someone will come for you, Falcone. And you won’t see them coming.”

Stany Falcone had a rule: never let the sun set on a debt. For thirty years, he’d ruled the waterfront district of Verossa with a ledger in one hand and a quiet, unnerving smile in the other. Men twice his size crossed the street when they saw his silhouette. Women whispered that he could smell fear like blood in the water.

“Don’t ever become like me.”

The scene shifted—Stany couldn’t bear to watch the rest. He snapped the projector off. His reflection in the dark glass of the wall showed a man with hollow cheeks and hands that had begun to tremble. Not from age. From something worse.

Stany studied the girl. “What’s your name?”