The headstones cluster like crooked teeth along the slope, their inscriptions worn smooth by a hundred years of weather. But one stands out — newer, polished, lovingly maintained. Giuseppe Salvatore. The name still carries weight here, even from beneath six feet of soil.

Behind it, the old oak tree spreads its branches like a witness. Something moves in the shadows beneath it. Not an animal. Too still for that. A figure, dark coat catching the wind, standing so quiet they might have been carved from the night itself.

He stops a few feet away, tilting his head, taking in the scene before him with predatory patience.