The map of Italy stretched across the mahogany table like a battlefield frozen mid-war. Every city was marked in crimson pins, every route strung in white threads that crossed like veins — the anatomy of a country under siege.
Marcus stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, his expression carved from steel. Christopher lounged opposite him, boots on the chair, a toothpick between his teeth and mischief in his eyes — the devil to Marcus's general.
"Rome, Naples, Florence," Marcus muttered, dragging a line with his pen. "If Lucifer's moving product, it's through one of these. Ports are too visible. He'll use land."
Christopher twirled his toothpick. "Then I'll start at Florence. It's loud enough for someone to hide in plain sight."
Marcus nodded absently, mind working faster than his pulse. "Good. James is tracing the northern border. Vincent's handling intel with Sofia's network."
