The rain came down in relentless sheets, turning the city streets into slick, gray mirrors. Outside a little café, four black SUVs idled at the curb. Men in dark suits stood near the doorway, scanning the street with practiced, cold precision. They didn't move, didn't speak, didn't so much as flinch when the wind picked up.

The café door opened. Dante Moretti stepped out.

He was impossible to miss. Six-foot-seven. Black suit tailored to perfection. Jet-black hair and dark, piercing eyes that swept the street once and found nothing worth his attention. His jaw was sharp, his expression cold. One glance from him was enough to make people cross the street. Today was no different. The few pedestrians out in the rain saw him and immediately found somewhere else to be.

Behind him, Enzo, Luca, Nikolai, and Matteo fanned out without a word. They were alert, watchful, professionals. They had done this a thousand times.

And then—

A figure came rushing around the corner of the little café. A paper bag clutched to their chest. A pink umbrella turned inside out by the wind.

Thump.

Straight into Dante's chest.

The street went still. The soldiers froze. Even the rain seemed to hesitate.

But the person who had collided with the most dangerous man in the city? They were too busy gasping to notice.