Chapter 85 The Price Of Peace

• Giovanni Andretti stood at the edge of a private villa balcony in Lake Como, the last rays of the evening sun glinting off the deep blue water below. A tumbler of whiskey dangled from his fingers, untouched. He wore a tailored suit, dark as ink, though the tie was loosened and the collar undone.
• One by one, his enemies had fallen. The Russian cell leaders were buried beneath foreign soil. The moles in his crew men he’d once trusted with his life had been exposed, interrogated, and removed like rot from a dying tree. Those who remained were loyal or dead.
• But the one name that kept returning, again and again, was Stefano.