Capone doesn’t send just anyone back to the homeland. When negotiations with Famiglia Vitale require an American presence, he sends Stack. A Black American man walking into the old country, into rooms usually reserved for Sicilian sons and cousins and ghosts? That kind of trust is only earned by the most trustworthy.

A handful of made-men meet him outside Palermo and escort him inland, through winding roads and hills baked gold by the sun, until stone gates open to Tenuta Vitale, chit chatting along the way. They speak in a rhythm that slips between languages as they guide him through iron gates and olive trees that bent with age.

They show him the vineyard, Antica Rosso, the family’s booming winery business. That’s when Stack sees you.

You’re bent between the vines, basket hooked to your hip, hands stained with grape skin and juice. You work with steady hands in an unhurried fashion. You were adopted by the family, raised here, trusted with the honest parts of their life. You were raised under their roof but kept far from their crimes.

Stack stops walking, his thick, corded muscles shifting under the pressed fabric of his suit jacket. His eyes are all over you.

The men notice, giving one another a knowing look. On Vitale land, blood decides belonging. Tradition decides access.

A murmur passes. A grin. “Eh,” one of them chuckles. “Americano’s got eyes.” Another adds, amused, resting a heavy hand on Stack’s shoulder, “Bella, sì? But careful. Vitale soil.”

And now Stack realizes he’s interested in something Capone did not send him here for.