The sun never really rose over Italy that morning — it just burned through the fog, pale and unforgiving. Marcus stood by the wide glass windows of the mansion's war room, a phone pressed to his ear, his reflection cutting through the glare like a ghost that had seen too much.
"Airports?"
"Blocked," Christopher replied without looking up from the multiple screens flickering before him. His fingers flew across the keyboard like gunfire. "Rome, Venice, Milan — every international departure is being screened. IDs, flight lists, surveillance cross-matched."
Marcus's voice stayed even. "Ports?"
"Already handled," James cut in from the corner, flipping through his tablet. "All shipments coming through Genoa, Naples, and Trieste are under review. Every manifest. Every crew list. If Lucifer sneezes in the sea breeze, we'll know."
Marcus exhaled, his jaw tightening. "Railway?"
