Juliet stood before the polished blackboard inside her new task force headquarters—an underground bunker hidden beneath the old police archives. The room was dimly lit, filled with whiteboards, cork maps, files, weapons. It smelled of metal, ink, and urgency.
Pinned on the board were photos of key mafia players still at large. At the center: Giorgio Giovanni.
Her hand lingered over his face longer than it should have.
"You look like you're about to kill that board," Antonio said from behind her.
"Maybe I am," Juliet replied, crossing her arms.
Antonio stepped beside her, holding a case file. "Interpol flagged suspicious wire transfers from Geneva. Accounts tied to one of Giovanni's shell companies. All roads are still leading to him."
"Then we're getting closer."
Antonio hesitated. "Juliet, I know you want revenge. But there's something... off about how all of this is playing out."
Juliet turned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this feels too clean. Giovanni's been quiet. Too quiet. It's like he's waiting for something. Or someone."
Juliet didn't answer. She couldn't. Because deep inside, she had felt it too—that chilling stillness before a storm.
Adonis watched the rain fall from his apartment window, steam rising from a cup of black coffee. He hadn't slept well.
Memories clawed at him at night: steel bars, screams echoing in cell blocks, the sound of fists against bone.
And now Juliet. Her voice, her eyes, the way she looked at him last night on the rooftop—it haunted him differently. Like hope.
He wasn't used to hope.
His burner phone buzzed on the table.
A message.
Meet at the warehouse. Bring nothing. Come alone.
No name.
Just coordinates.
Adonis cursed under his breath. He knew this could be a trap, but his instincts whispered otherwise.
He grabbed his coat and the 9mm tucked beneath it.
The warehouse sat on the outskirts of Milan, forgotten and rotting. Adonis approached with measured steps, his gun ready but hidden beneath his coat.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, a man stood in the shadows. Tall. Bald. With a crooked nose that had clearly been broken too many times.
"Adonis De Luca," the man said. "You've been busy."
"Who are you?"
"Call me Luca. I used to run numbers for your father. Before he sold us out to Giovanni."
Adonis didn't lower the gun. "Why are you here?"
Luca stepped forward, holding a flash drive.
"Because I'm tired of burying friends. And because you need this." He tossed the drive.
Adonis caught it. "What's on it?"
"Giovanni's safehouse locations. The real ones. And proof he's not working alone."
Adonis narrowed his eyes. "What's the price?"
Luca laughed bitterly. "No price. Just... finish what your father was too weak to start. End this."
He turned and vanished into the smoke, leaving Adonis alone with the device—and a decision.
That night, Juliet sat in her office, eyes burning from hours of reading files. She was still tracing the pattern of weapons smuggled into Milan when her phone buzzed.
A message from Adonis.
Meet me. Rooftop. Now.
Minutes later, the two stood beneath the cloudy sky again, wind tugging at Juliet's coat.
He tossed her the flash drive.
She caught it without a word.
"What is it?"
"Proof," he said. "Giovanni's hideouts. And something else—he's not working alone."
Juliet looked at him. "Who?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out. And when I do—"
"You'll kill them," she finished.
Adonis didn't answer. The look in his eyes was answer enough.
Juliet stepped closer, staring up at him.
"You should've brought this to the task force officially."
"I don't trust your system," he said. "But I trust you."
Her breath caught at that.
A full second of silence passed between them, heavy with things neither of them could say.
Then Juliet broke the tension. "I'll run it through our systems. Quietly."
Adonis nodded. "Be careful. This goes deeper than either of us thought."
As Juliet turned to leave, he caught her wrist. Gently.
"Juliet."
She looked back.
"If anything happens to you..."
She waited.
He shook his head. "Just—don't let anything happen to you."
Something flickered in her chest. Soft, dangerous.
She didn't pull her hand away. "You too, De Luca."
And then she was gone.
Across the city, in a penthouse soaked in cigar smoke, Giorgio Giovanni raised a glass of brandy.
"He's taking the bait," he said to the figure seated across from him.
The other man, half-hidden in shadow, nodded.
"Let them dance. When they get too close—we cut the strings."
Giovanni smiled. "And then?"
The man leaned forward, revealing a familiar face—Commissioner Bellini.
"Then we remind them who really runs Milan."