Fresh flowers crowded the entrance hall. Crystal gleamed beneath the dining room chandeliers. Somewhere beyond the kitchen doors, Carmela Marchetti was delivering a final, very particular set of instructions about the antipasti.

The occasion was supposedly a family dinner. Of course, family dinners didn't ordinarily require private security stationed at the gates or three black luxury sedans pulling into the circular driveway precisely twelve minutes after seven.

Outside, car doors closed. A moment later, the front doors opened.

Sergei Morozov entered first, silver-haired and imposing despite the slight weariness around his eyes. Natalya followed, elegant and coolly composed, exchanging formal greetings with Carmela.

Then came Ivan.

At thirty-six, the younger Morozov was already a formidable presence—tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit. His pale-blue eyes moved briefly across the entrance hall before settling on Giuseppe.

Introductions began—polite smiles, handshakes, kisses on cheeks, the familiar choreography of powerful families pretending this was an ordinary social occasion.