Enzo Moretti had watched men lie to his face with guns under their jackets and death already decided in their eyes.

By midnight, the storm outside had settled into a thick, misty drizzle that shrouded the French coastline in silver fog.

Inside the upper study of Enzo’s main estate house, Marco sat in a leather chair, nursing a glass of scotch while watching four computer monitors showing live satellite feeds of Marseilles, Rotterdam, and Naples.

The heavy wooden door opened.

Enzo walked in, dressed in a fresh dark suit, his hair slightly damp from the rain outside. He looked completely revived, his movement carrying an absolute, deadly grace.

Marco looked up, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips before he quickly wiped it away. “The safe house held up?”

“It held up,” Enzo said, taking a seat behind his heavy oak desk. “Status on Carmine?”

“He fled Monaco three hours ago,” Marco reported, sliding an iPad across the desk. “He took his private yacht, The Golden Seahorse, heading toward his fortified villa near Genoa. He thinks he’s safe behind his private guard detail.”

Enzo picked up the tablet, his eyes scanning the location tracking data. “And the leak in our convoy?”

Marco’s face darkened. “It wasn't one of our men. It was the hotel manager in Monte Carlo. Carmine bought him off three days ago. He placed a tracking device on the underside of your Mercedes while it was in the valet garage.”

“Handle the hotel manager,” Enzo instructed flatly.

“Already done,” Marco replied. “He’s currently discussing his life choices with our team in Nice.”

Enzo leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the polished wood. “Carmine thinks he can hide in Genoa. He believes a sea approach is impossible because of his coastal radar, and a land approach would take too many men.”

“And what do you think, boss?”

Enzo looked over at the small screen displaying the Rotterdam dock authority manifests.

“I think Carmine forgot that I don't need to attack his villa,” Enzo said, a cold, calculating light entering his dark eyes. “I just need to take his air.”

He picked up his desk phone and dialed a ten-digit private number.

“This is Moretti,” Enzo spoke into the receiver. “Initiate Phase Four on Lucchese Enterprise holdings in Genoa. Freeze the fuel lines at his private dock. Cut his land electricity grid at two in the morning. And call Admiral Rossi in the Italian Coast Guard—tell him I am enforcing my private maritime lien on The Golden Seahorse for unpaid port fees.”

He hung up the phone.

Marco chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re starving him out.”

“In two hours, Carmine will have no power, no fuel for his yacht, and no legal way to step off his property,” Enzo said. “He will be trapped in his own golden cage.”

The study door opened quietly behind them.

Elena stepped inside, wearing one of Enzo’s white silk button-down shirts that hung down to her mid-thigh, her damp dark hair falling over her shoulders. She carried two cups of hot coffee on a small wooden tray.

Marco immediately stood up, bowing his head respectfully. “Miss Russo.”

Elena smiled at him—a genuine, warm smile that carried no lingering awkwardness from the morning’s sunscreen incident. “Thank you, Marco. For everything you did today.”

Marco looked at Enzo, then back at Elena, a faint smile softening his rugged face. “Just doing my job, Miss Russo. Though I think my skin-care duties are officially retired.”

Elena laughed softly, setting a coffee cup in front of Enzo before handing the second one to Marco.

Enzo reached out, taking Elena’s wrist and pulling her gently down onto his lap. She didn't resist, resting her hip against his leg and wrapping one arm around his shoulders as he took a sip of the black coffee.

“Are we winning?” she asked, looking at the computer monitors covering the desk.