I wake to the smell of antiseptic and sea salt. The wound in my back pulls with every breath, a souvenir from Lorenzo Vitale’s grandson. I should’ve died on that Sicilian hillside. Maybe I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

Now I’m in Altamonte—a village painted in sun and silence, where the old men play chess outside the café and children kick a dented football through the piazza. Gio saved me. Carabiniere. Good man. Too honest for this world.

Last night, I watched from the shadows as Marco Quaranta shoved Angelo against his own charred storefront. 'Pay or burn,' he said. Then he lit the match.

The town did nothing.

I could do the same. Walk away. Fade into the coast.

But the fire’s still burning. And so am I.

My phone buzzes. Collins.

'Robert, the winery’s a drug hub. Cash, fenethylline—tons of it. Who tipped us off?'

I don’t answer.

Instead, I lace my boots.

Time to even the score.