The scent of jasmine couldn't mask the lingering odor of war that still clung to Palermo's streets. Sofia Bianchi, sole heir to the Bianchi shipping empire, adjusted her Fendi sunglasses as she slipped into Bar Bellini. Two years after the Americans had liberated the island, the old powers were reasserting themselves—not the fascists, but something more ancient. The families.

Her father's funeral three weeks ago had drawn every important man in Sicily—businessmen, politicians, and those who straddled the shadows between. Salvatore Falcone had stood in the front row, his face a mask of respectful mourning while his eyes calculated the value of her inheritance.

Sofia ordered a Campari, her third drink of the afternoon, but hadn't touched any of them. The handsome man watching her from the corner had been following her for days. Too beautiful to be a killer, she thought, but Sicily had taught her that beauty and violence were often lovers.

She pretended not to notice him, though his reflection in the bar mirror was impossible to ignore. Tall, with shoulders that strained against his well-tailored jacket, and dark curls that seemed to capture the dim light of the bar. His lips remained set in a neutral frown, but his eyes—those eyes followed her with an intensity that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

Sofia recognized him from earlier in the week as well. He was good, always maintaining his distance, but not good enough. Her father had taught her vigilance before he'd taught her arithmetic. "In Sicily," he would say, "attention is the difference between prosperity and the grave."

The afternoon crowd swelled as workers finished their shifts. A group of men in dusty clothes entered, arguing passionately about Palermo's football match. Sofia waited, sipping minimally at her drink, watching the handsome stranger in the mirror. When his attention was momentarily diverted by the raucous football fans, she slipped through the kitchen and out the service entrance.

The Mediterranean sun was blinding after the bar's darkness. Sofia moved quickly through the alley, her heels clicking against ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. She reached the valet stand where her car waited, pressing a generous tip into the young attendant's hand.

"Grazie, Signora Bianchi," he said, eyes widening at the amount.

The Maserati Tipo 26M—her father's last gift to her—purred to life. As she pulled away from the curb, she caught sight of her pursuer emerging from the bar, his handsome face now animated with alarm. Sofia couldn't resist. She slowed just enough to catch his eye, stuck her tongue out in a moment of childish defiance, and then accelerated away, laughing at his expression of surprise.

The Maserati responded to her touch like a thoroughbred, the engine's growl echoing off ancient stone walls as she navigated the narrow streets. In her rearview mirror, a black Alfa Romeo appeared, struggling to keep pace, its older engine no match for her father's last gift to her.

"So there are two of you," she murmured, noting the driver and her handsome pursuer in the passenger seat.

Sofia downshifted, feeling the car surge forward as she took the turn toward Via Libertà. The tires screamed against cobblestones slick with afternoon rain. She knew these streets as intimately as the lines on her palm—her playground as a child, her battlefield now.

When she cut down the unmarked alley that locals called "the throat," the Alfa Romeo missed the turn. Sofia allowed herself a smile. The Falcones might own half of Sicily, but they didn't understand its heart.

She navigated the labyrinthine streets of Palermo's old quarter before emerging onto the coastal road that led to her family's estate. The Bianchi villa stood on a promontory overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, its honey-colored stone glowing in the late afternoon light. The iron gates opened automatically as she approached—another of her father's modernizations that had raised eyebrows among the old Sicilian aristocracy.

Sofia parked in the courtyard, her victory over her pursuers adding a spring to her step as she entered the cool marble foyer. She reached for the telephone, intending to alert her security team about the tail, when the crunch of tires on gravel reached her ears.

Through the window, she watched with disbelief as the black Alfa Romeo pulled up to her gates. Somehow, they had found her. The handsome man emerged from the passenger side, exchanged words with the driver, and then began scaling the stone wall that surrounded the property.

"Persistent bastard," Sofia muttered, reaching for the small pistol her father had insisted she learn to use after her mother's death. She checked that it was loaded, then moved through the villa's rooms, drawing curtains and locking doors.

Her mind raced back to her confrontation with Salvatore Falcone three days earlier. They had stood before the smoldering ruins of her father's warehouse, the acrid smell of burnt leather and wood filling her nostrils, but she hadn't flinched.

"I'm not selling," Sofia had told him firmly.

Salvatore had smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "Your father understood business, Sofia. He knew when to hold and when to fold." He adjusted his immaculate hat. "My son Victor admires your spirit. A marriage would solve many problems."

Sofia had inhaled deeply from her cigarette, blowing smoke deliberately to the side rather than in his face—a small courtesy that emphasized her refusal wasn't personal, just absolute. "Victor Falcone collects women like hunting trophies, Don Salvatore. I'm not interested in becoming part of his collection."

The old man's eyes had hardened then, revealing the steel beneath the velvet. "The world is changing, Sofia. A woman alone in business... Sicily isn't ready for such modern ideas."

"Then Sicily will have to adapt," she'd replied, crushing her cigarette beneath her heel.

Now, as she watched the intruder don a ski mask and draw his weapon, Sofia understood that Salvatore Falcone had no intention of allowing her time to prove her point. The Falcones had built their empire by eliminating obstacles, not negotiating with them.

Sofia positioned herself in the shadows of the kitchen, a heavy cast-iron pan gripped in her hand. She controlled her breathing as her father had taught her during their hunting trips. The intruder's footsteps were surprisingly light for a man his size, but the ancient floorboards of the villa betrayed him with every other step.

When he entered the kitchen, Sofia struck. The intruder's eyes widened when the cast-iron pan connected with his skull. As he crumpled to the marble floor, she noted the quality of his suit—too fine for a common thug. The Falcones took pride in their soldiers.

"Who sent you?" Sofia demanded, the man's own Beretta now steady in her hand. Up close, his beauty was even more striking—olive skin, a jaw that could cut glass, and eyes that reminded her of the Tyrrhenian Sea after a storm.

"Please," he whispered, one hand raised in supplication. Blood trickled from his temple, staining his collar. "Don't kill me."

Something in his voice gave her pause. Fear, yes, but something else—shame? The gun in her hand had belonged to her father. She'd never fired it at a person, though she'd practiced enough to know she wouldn't miss at this range.

"The Falcones have dozens like you," she said. "Tell me what I need to know, and you can find another family to serve."

For a moment, it seemed he might answer. His eyes—a startling blue that seemed out of place in his Sicilian face—met hers with an intensity that made her grip on the gun falter slightly. Then, with a movement so swift it caught her off guard, he flung a handful of dirt from a nearby flowerpot into her face.

"Figlio di puttana!" Sofia cursed, momentarily blinded. She fired a shot that splintered the doorframe as the man crashed through the window and onto the terrace beyond.

By the time she cleared her vision and reached the broken window, the intruder was sprinting across the lawn toward the gate where his companion waited in the idling car. Sofia raced through the villa and out the front door, giving chase despite the foolishness of pursuing an armed man.

She tackled him just short of the gate, both of them tumbling onto the manicured grass. Sofia found herself straddling him, the gun pressed to his chest, her breath coming in angry gasps.

"Why are you making this difficult?" she demanded. "Just answer my question and you'll live."

For a heartbeat, time seemed suspended. His mask had come off in the fall, revealing his full face—younger than she'd expected, perhaps only a few years older than her twenty-five years. Something passed between them, an electric current of recognition that had nothing to do with their previous encounters.

Then he moved again, throwing more dirt into her face and using her momentary distraction to escape her grasp. By the time Sofia recovered, he was climbing into the Alfa Romeo.

Their eyes locked as the car sped away, and Sofia could have sworn she saw regret in his gaze.

"Only if he'd just answered my question," Sofia sighed, brushing the dirt from her clothing. Her hand came away with a small object—a medallion that must have torn from his neck during their struggle. She examined it: St. Michael the Archangel, patron saint of protection. An unusual choice for a Falcone soldier.

Minutes later, she called her bodyguards to escort her to the city. As they drove, Sofia found herself deep in concentration, the medallion cool against her palm. She could still detect a faint trace of the man's scent on her clothes—sandalwood and something uniquely male. It was admirable, that scent. Dangerous to notice, but impossible to ignore.

She had no time for such distractions. Someone wanted to erase the Bianchi name from Sicily's history, and Sofia was the last one bearing it. Her father had built an empire here without becoming one of the families. "We are businesspeople, Sofia," he'd told her countless times. "We deal with the families, but we are not them."

But as she watched the shadow of Mount Pellegrino stretch across Palermo like a protective hand, Sofia wondered if remaining neutral was still possible. The warehouse fire was only the beginning. Salvatore Falcone wouldn't stop until he had everything—her property, her business, perhaps even her.

She touched the small pistol in her purse, a habit formed since her father's death. The game had changed, and Sofia Bianchi needed to change with it.

The question wasn't whether she could beat the Falcones at their own game, but whether she could do so without becoming what she despised.

Luca Giuliani slammed the door to his motel room and unleashed a torrent of profanities that would have made even the dock workers blush. His tirade ended only when his voice grew hoarse and his lungs ached for air. He hurled an ashtray against the wall, watching it shatter with grim satisfaction before collapsing onto the sagging bed.

With his head in his hands, Luca's thoughts oscillated between the job he had failed to complete and the woman who had bested him. Her face haunted him—those defiant eyes, that confident smile when she'd stuck her tongue out at him from her speeding Maserati. In another life, under different circumstances, he might have found her captivating. In this life, she was his target, and his failure to eliminate her had catastrophic implications.

This was supposed to be the job that secured his sister's freedom from the Falcones, Sicily's most ruthless crime family. Instead, it had spiraled into a nightmare that threatened to consume them both.

The assignment had seemed straightforward enough: follow Sofia Bianchi, learn her routines, then infiltrate that grand mansion on the hill and put two bullets in her head. Clean. Simple. Final.

But Luca Giuliani was not a killer by nature. The gun felt foreign in his hand, its weight a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. Yet for Lucia, his little sister, he would become the devil himself. The Falcones had made that perfectly clear when they'd taken her three weeks ago.

"Your sister is quite beautiful," Salvatore Falcone had told him, smoke from his cigar creating a haze between them in the dimly lit room of his estate. "It would be a shame if she were to end up in one of our establishments in Naples. Those sailors can be... uncivilized."

The implication had turned Luca's blood to ice. He had seen the hollow-eyed girls who worked in such places, their spirits broken beyond repair.

"One job," Salvatore had continued, sliding a photograph across the table. "The Bianchi woman refuses to sell what rightfully belongs to me. Make her disappear, and your sister returns to you untouched. Fail me..." He had left the sentence unfinished, but the message was clear.

Now, as the reality of his failure settled over him like a shroud, nausea rose in Luca's throat. He barely made it to the bathroom before his meager lunch made a violent reappearance. As he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, the telephone's shrill ring cut through the silence from the other room.

Luca stumbled toward it, but the ringing stopped before he could reach the receiver. "Fuck!" he spat, knowing exactly who had called. By not checking in, he had confirmed his failure to the Falcones.

"Shit!" His hands shook as he dialed the number he'd been given for emergencies. Each ring on the other end was another nail in his coffin.

Suddenly, the dim light in his room flickered and died. The power to the entire building had been cut.

"Not now! What the fuck!" Luca's heart hammered against his ribs as he abandoned the useless phone. He moved to the bed where he'd left his pistol, fumbling in his pocket for the silencer. As he screwed it into place with practiced fingers, a movement outside caught his eye.

Through the grimy window, he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a Maserati Tipo 26M, its elegant lines incongruous against the shabby backdrop of the motel. Behind it, three black Alfa Romeos disgorged men in dark suits, their weapons barely concealed beneath their jackets.

What the hell is that woman doing here? How had she found him?

Time was a luxury Luca no longer possessed. He checked his pistol, ensuring a round was chambered, then slid beneath the bed, his body pressed against the dusty floorboards. The irony wasn't lost on him—the hunter becoming the hunted in the span of a few hours.

The front door to his room opened with surprising gentleness, as if his visitor was in no particular hurry.

"I'll deal with him. Wait here," came a woman's voice—Sofia Bianchi's voice—calm and authoritative. The door closed behind her.

Luca held his breath as her footsteps approached the bedroom. When she pushed the door open, he sprang from his hiding place, catching her off guard. He threw her down onto the bed, using his weight to pin her, but underestimated her reflexes. Sofia's knee connected with his groin with devastating accuracy. Pain exploded through his body, causing his fingers to spasm and his gun to clatter to the floor.

Sofia snatched the weapon before he could recover, but to his surprise, she didn't immediately turn it on him. Instead, she straddled him, her weight surprisingly solid for her slender frame, the gun held casually at her side as if they were having a pleasant conversation over coffee.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was unexpectedly rich, slightly husky, with an aristocratic Sicilian accent that spoke of education and privilege. It didn't match the fierce woman who had tackled him on her lawn hours earlier.