The black Maserati sped through the morning traffic like a blade. Marco sat behind the wheel, one hand steady, the other drumming against the steering wheel in thought.
Leonardo’s orders were clear—go to the Bellini estate and deliver the message personally. Giovanni Bellini needed to hear the threat from Don De Luca’s mouth.
The city streets blurred past, but after the third turn, something tugged at Marco’s instincts. A black sedan had been in his rearview mirror for far too long—matching his turns, matching his pace.
At first, he dismissed it. No one’s tailing me. Not today. But five minutes later, the car was still there, keeping its distance but never breaking away.
Marco’s jaw tightened. He reached for his phone, hit the speed dial. Leonardo picked up after two rings.
“Marco, w
