I needed to go over Enzo’s head.

The Vitale syndicate was not ruled by one man alone; it was governed by a council of five capos who valued stability and profit above all else.

If they knew Enzo was starting a civil war, they would turn on him.

But I had to prove I held the keys to their survival.

“The Grand Hotel Via Veneto,” I told the driver.

The driver nodded and put the car in gear.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, the screen cracked but still functioning.

I had one contact saved under a fake name, a number Matteo had given me in case of absolute emergency.

It was the private line to Gianni Moretti, the oldest member of the governing council.

The rain beat a steady rhythm against the car windows as we entered the city center, the ancient ruins of the Colosseum looming like a ghost in the dark.

I pressed the call button.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.

On the fourth ring, the line clicked open.

There was only silence on the other end, a heavy, waiting quiet.