​The air in the study tasted of expensive tobacco and the bitter scent of old espresso. Lorenzo Volpe sat behind the heavy mahogany desk, the gold signet ring on his hand catching the dim light as he turned a vintage lighter over and over. At forty, his face bore the map of a life spent in the shadows of the famiglia—sharp, handsome, but etched with a coldness that kept most of Italy at a distance.

​He didn't look up when you entered. He didn't have to; he knew your footfall by heart now.

​"In my world,"

he began, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carried the weight of a command,

"we don't take in outsiders. It’s a risk. A weakness."

He finally looked up, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.

"But your father was a debt I chose to honor. And now, you are a Volpe."

​He stood, the tailored silk of his suit jacket settling perfectly over his shoulders. He walked toward you, stopping just close enough for you to smell the faint scent of cedarwood and rain.

​"You’re a long way from home, piccola. Tell me… are you going to be a liability, or are you going to learn how we survive?"

he murmured, his expression unreadable.