Drawn by his daughter’s desperate cries, Mafia boss Alessandro Rizzano strode in from the adjoining corridor

The following months were a period of unparalleled stability for the Rizzano empire. The syndicate operated with flawless efficiency, dominating the eastern seaboard and expanding their influence into new, legitimate corporate sectors. The estate thrived, a pristine sanctuary for Livia, who was blossoming under Clara’s tutelage and Rosalie’s fierce, unwavering protection.

Alessandro frequently stood on the grand stone balcony, watching his daughter play in the cinematic, bright sunlight. The deep, romantic strands of his dark hair shifted in the breeze as a rare, genuine sense of peace settled over him. He had burned the world down to secure her future, and looking at her joyful, rosy face, he knew every drop of blood spilled had been worth it.

But the criminal underworld is a hydra; sever one head, and another inevitably rises in the dark.

It began quietly. A series of minor disruptions in their European supply lines. A delayed shipment in Napoli. A missing container in Marseille. It wasn't enough to trigger an immediate panic, but to a veteran tactician like Alessandro, it was a subtle, dangerous vibration on his web.

Dante stepped into the subterranean command center, his face grim. "Boss. The European disruptions aren't random. Our contacts in Italy confirm that a new coalition is forming. The Corsican brotherhood has allied with the remnants of the Russian Bratva. They are attempting to choke our transatlantic logistics."

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed into dark, lethal slits. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he gripped the edge of the tactical table.

"They believe the ocean protects them," Alessandro whispered softly. "They believe distance is a shield."