Ruined Through Obsession (The Severato Syndicate #3)

Prologue

Enzo

Wars rarely begin with gunfire. They begin with numbers.

A missing shipment. A frozen account. An offshore transfer buried beneath six shell companies. By the time bullets start flying, someone has already paid for the blood.

I stand at the edge of Niccolò's desk while the rest of the room studies maps littered with crimson markers.

Alessio watches the warehouse locations with barely restrained fury.

Caterina instinctively leans into him, one hand resting over the child growing inside her.

Niccolò remains unnervingly still, his expression carved from stone as surveillance reports continue to scroll across the monitors lining the walls of his study.

I ignore the maps, because maps only show where men die. Numbers tell me who intends to kill them.

Every shipment attacked before sunrise had been intercepted with impossible precision. Every convoy had been ambushed within minutes of leaving our warehouses. The Volkov bratva hadn't suddenly become military geniuses overnight. They had become rich.

Someone was financing them.

I'd spent the last twelve hours following encrypted transactions through banks in Luxembourg, Cyprus, and Malta, peeling away layers of shell corporations until only one name remained. The result sitting inside the leather dossier beneath my hand was both predictable and infuriating.

Roberto Severato.

"Our surveillance operatives intercepted encrypted wire transfers originating from Palermo," Niccolò says quietly. His voice never rises, but silence immediately settles over the room. "The routing numbers point directly to Roberto's personal accounts."

No one speaks for several seconds.

Alessio is the first to break the silence. A vicious stream of Italian curses erupts from him as his fist crashes onto the mahogany desk, rattling crystal glasses and sending a pen rolling across the polished surface.

"Our own father."

The words leave him through clenched teeth, more growl than speech.

"He'd rather burn this city to the ground than watch us succeed."

Niccolò doesn't argue. He doesn't need to. The evidence is overwhelming. Roberto isn't merely funding the Russians. He's using them as a weapon to punish the sons who refused to kneel.

I open the dossier and slide several photographs onto the desk. Bank statements. Shipping routes. Wire confirmations. Every document tells the same story.

"This offensive isn't sustainable without Roberto's money," I say. "If we sever the financial pipeline, the Volkovs lose the resources needed to continue the assault. Their momentum dies within days."

Alessio looks at me. "So we kill the old man."

I meet his gaze without flinching. "If killing him solved the problem, I would've suggested it six hours ago."

A faint smile almost reaches Niccolò's lips. Almost. "What are you proposing?"

"I have the private jet fueled and waiting on the tarmac."

The room grows still again.

"I leave for Sicily within the hour."

Caterina's brows knit together. "You're going alone?"

"I'll attract less attention."

Alessio folds his arms across his chest, clearly unconvinced. "You think Roberto's going to sit down and negotiate?"

"No." I close the dossier. "I think he'll underestimate me."

That has always been Roberto's greatest weakness. He assumes everyone is motivated by pride because pride is what governs every decision he makes. He believes power belongs to the loudest man in the room.

He has no idea the real power in Palermo has spent years standing quietly beside another man's throne.

Her name is Elena Vitiello.

Officially, she's nothing more than her uncle's translator.

Unofficially...

Every intelligence report I've collected over the last three years points to the same conclusion.

She manages the finances. She controls the negotiations. She protects the empire while everyone else applauds the figurehead sitting in the Don's chair.

If I can convince Elena Vitiello to withdraw her support, Roberto loses far more than his funding. He loses Sicily.

Niccolò studies me for a long moment before giving a single nod. "Handle Palermo."

"I will."

At the time, I believe I'm boarding that plane to stop a war.

I have no idea I'm flying toward the only woman intelligent enough to dismantle every certainty I've ever built.