The air is still.
Ethan Cole stands before a decrepit building his jaw tight, his gaze cold.
"I'm going to tear this place to the ground," he mutters.
And in his mind's eye—he already has.
The building crumbles into dust and smoke, its foundations reduced to ash.
72 Hours Earlier — Rome, Italy
The heavy Roman sun breaks through the shutters as Ethan Cole awakens in his penthouse suite. Crisp. Methodical. He dresses in black. No tie. No smile.
A chyron fades in:
Ethan Cole — Consigliere to the Cole Mafia Family
His convoy speeds through cobbled streets, stopping at a fortified estate hidden behind wrought-iron gates and armed guards.
The name on the marble plaque reads: Emilio Donato.
Inside, Emilio—white linen suit, wine-stained lips—sneers as Ethan steps into the room with a leather case.
"I come bearing an offer from Fabio Cole," Ethan says smoothly, placing the file on the table. "Your vineyards. Your shipping routes. In exchange for your silence about what happened in Palermo."
Emilio laughs. Then spits.
"I don't take orders from half-blood strays," he sneers. "Go back to wherever your mongrel mother crawled from."
Ethan's expression never changes.
He closes the case gently. Looks Emilio dead in the eyes.
"Che il tuo vino diventi sangue nelle tue vene."
(May your wine turn to blood in your veins.)
He turns and walks away.
Outside, a low hum fills the air. A crop-dusting plane buzzes overhead, flying low.
Except it's not pesticides it's dropping—it's lighter fluid.
Ethan flicks his gold lighter open, lets it fall behind him.
FWOOM.
The vineyard explodes into flames, smoke and fire engulfing the estate.
From the safety of the car, Ethan watches Emilio scream and flail at the inferno consuming his life's work.
Later that day.
Ethan stands alone at a lavish funeral in the Sicilian countryside. A marble mausoleum. Mourners in black. The casket is open.
Fabio Cole—dead, but still commanding fear.
Ethan leans over the casket, whispering, "Father."
Behind him, Paolo Cole—Fabio's biological son—seethes.
"You think you're still one of us?" Paolo spits. "He trusted you more than his own blood."
"He trusted those who earned it," Ethan replies calmly. "You never did.
That night.
Three armed men creep through Ethan's villa. They find the bed occupied—until they shoot, and realize it's empty.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots from behind. Clean. Fatal.
Ethan steps out of the bathroom, cool as ice, brushing gun smoke from his suit.
He picks up his phone.
Dials Paolo.
"Still breathing Paolo, I'll let you live out of respect for your father."
Outside, Paolo's car explodes.
Ethan said I'm leaving Italy for good and don't come looking for me I'll kill you next time.
He hangs up.
On a private jet — en route to South Africa
Ethan sips scotch, flipping through a dossier. A glossy photo of a worn-down building — The Plaza. Notes on a buried offshore crypto vault. Schematics. Legal reports.
His jaw tightens at the word:
Virexon Group Demolition approved.
Ethan closes the file. Looks out the window.
The game has begun.