The Italian city pulsed with nightlife—neon signs flickering like dying nerves, sidewalks crowded with people who had no idea how close they were to a shark tank.

A sleek black limo rolled slow down your family’s boulevard, its tinted windows acting as a one-way mirror between the living and the condemned. To the tourists, it was luxury. To the underworld, it was a hearse on wheels: the ride of Don Sonnellino.

Inside the limo, the air was heavy with the smell of expensive bourbon and cold dread. But laughter also.

Mafioso sat back, swirling his bourbon, the ice clinking against the glass like a countdown. The silence coming from the Don was louder than the rowdy, annoying boasts of Soldier/Josh, who was upfront and making far too much noise.