The air that hit Reese as he stepped onto the tarmac at Malta International Airport was thick with the scent of salt and sun-baked stone. It was a world away from the cool, conditioned atmosphere of the O’Malley tower in Boston. Two men in crisp, light grey suits stood waiting beside a black Mercedes sedan. They were part of the advance team Gema had scrambled together within hours of the board meeting. Their leader, a man named Declan with a shaved head and a jaw that looked like it could crack walnuts, nodded once.

  “Mr. O’Malley. Welcome to Valletta. I’m Declan. This is Liam.”

  “Good to be here, Declan,” Reese said, handing over his carry-on. He slid into the cool leather of the back seat, the tinted windows immediately cutting the Mediterranean glare. As they pulled away from the private terminal, he took out his phone. A single message from Meeka waited for him. ‘Check in after you’re settled. No risks.’ He typed a quick reply: ‘Wheels down. All quiet.’

  “How’s the landscape?” Reese asked, looking out at the passing limestone buildings, their balconies overflowing with bougainvillea.

  “The government officials are eager to meet you,” Declan replied from the passenger seat, his eyes constantly scanning the road ahead. “They’re rolling out the red carpet. The Minister of Economic Development has cleared his schedule for you tomorrow morning.”

  “And the other bidders?”

  “The French and Germans are sticking to their hotels, sending junior reps to press conferences. It’s the Sicilians you were right about. They’ve been very visible.”

  “Visible how?”

  Liam, the driver, glanced in the rearview mirror. “Big dinners. Loud suits. They’re leasing a yacht in the Grand Harbour and inviting local council members for drinks. Trying to buy influence the old-fashioned way.”

  Reese almost smiled. It was clumsy. Predictable. “Let them. We’re offering a world-class resort and a significant investment in their infrastructure. They’re offering a party.” He felt a familiar confidence settle in. This was his arena. Boardrooms, not back alleys. He could win this with a better proposal and a sharper pen.

  Their hotel was a restored palazzo overlooking the harbor, its ancient walls seamlessly integrated with modern glass and steel. Declan and Liam swept his suite for bugs and threats before allowing him inside. It was clean. The rest of the security team—four more men—had rooms on the same floor, controlling access to the elevators and stairs. Gema didn’t do things by halves.

  The next two days were a whirlwind of productive meetings. Reese, with his Harvard law background and easy charm, was a natural. He laid out the O’Malley vision for the Valletta Grand project, emphasizing job creation, increased tourism, and a partnership with the community. He assured ministers that O’Malley Holding Company was a beacon of corporate responsibility. The Maltese officials were impressed. The deal felt solid, almost within his grasp. He spoke with Meeka each night, reporting his progress, the slight tension from the Boston meeting fading with each successful step.

  “It’s going exactly as we planned,” he told her on the third night, standing on his balcony, the lights of the city twinkling below. “They like our numbers, they like our vision. The Sicilians are making noise, but they aren’t being taken seriously in the official channels.”

  “Good,” Meeka’s voice came through his secure phone, crisp and clear. “Don’t get comfortable, Reese. Gema’s team is there for a reason.”

  “They’re shadowing me so close I can smell their aftershave, Meeka. Don’t worry. I’ll have the preliminary agreement ready to sign by the end of the week.”

  He ended the call feeling a surge of pride. He was delivering. He was proving that the O’Malley name could dominate in this world just as easily as it had in the old one.

  The first crack in his confidence appeared the next afternoon. He was returning from a final meeting with the zoning commissioner. Liam drove while Declan sat in the front, their route the same one they’d taken every day. As they turned onto a quiet, narrow street in the heart of Valletta, a produce truck was awkwardly parked, blocking the way. It was a common enough sight in the ancient city.

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  Liam slowed the Mercedes to a stop. “Hang on,” he said, his voice low.

  Declan was already looking around, his hand disappearing inside his jacket. “This isn’t right. The market is three blocks over.”

  Reese felt his stomach tighten. He looked at the truck. The back was open, piled high with crates of tomatoes. A man in a stained white shirt was fussing with one of the tires, his back to them. It looked normal. Almost too normal.

  “What’s the problem?” Reese asked, his voice steady.

  “No cross streets. We’re boxed in,” Declan answered, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. A black Alfa Romeo had just turned the corner behind them, sealing the narrow street completely.

  The man by the truck stood up. He wasn’t holding a tire iron. He was holding a machine pistol.

  “Get down!” Declan roared.

  The world exploded in a storm of noise. The side windows of the Mercedes spiderwebbed and burst inward as bullets hammered into the reinforced body of the car. The sound was deafening, a physical force that vibrated through Reese’s bones. He dropped to the floor mat as Declan returned fire through the shattered windscreen, his handgun barking in sharp contrast to the chattering roar of the automatic weapon.

  Liam stomped on the accelerator. The powerful engine screamed as the Mercedes surged forward, ramming into the side of the produce truck with a sickening crunch of metal. Crates of tomatoes flew through the air, splattering red across the windshield like blood. For a second, the shooting stopped.

  “Go! Go! Reverse!” Declan yelled, reloading with practiced speed.

  Liam threw the car into reverse, the tires screeching on the cobblestones. The Alfa Romeo behind them sped forward, trying to pin them in. Liam wrenched the wheel, the back end of the Mercedes crashing against the limestone wall of a building. Plaster and ancient stone rained down on the roof. He then jerked the wheel the other way, smashing the side mirror of the Alfa, and shot backwards into the intersection they had just left.

  “They’re coming!” Declan shouted.

  Reese risked a glance over the back of the seat. The Alfa, its front corner dented, was right behind them. Another man was now leaning out the passenger window, firing a pistol. One of their pursuers from the truck was running down the street, trying to get a clear shot.

  “Left, now!” Declan yelled, spotting an impossibly narrow alleyway to their left, barely wider than the car. It was used by pedestrians, not vehicles.

  Liam didn’t hesitate. He spun the wheel, and the big beast lurched into the alley. The side panels shrieked as they scraped against the stone walls on both sides. People screamed and jumped out of the way. The car was wedged, a moving metal cork in a stone bottle, but it was moving forward. The gunshots faded behind them.

  They scraped and groaned their way through the hundred-foot alley, bursting out onto a wider, busier street filled with afternoon traffic. Liam didn't slow down. He weaved through cars, ignoring the blare of horns, and took a series of sharp, unpredictable turns.

  “Are we clear?” Liam asked, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

  Declan was looking back, his breathing heavy. “I think so. They won’t follow us into this traffic. Not for long.”

  Reese slowly pushed himself up, his heart pounding against his ribs. He was covered in tiny shards of safety glass. His ears were ringing. He looked at the back seat, at the bullet holes stitched across the leather where his head had been moments before.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “We’re good,” Declan said grimly. “Armor held. Barely.”

  Liam steered them toward the waterfront, away from the city center, his driving now smooth and controlled. He pulled the battered Mercedes to a stop in a deserted parking lot overlooking the sea. The engine ticked quietly in the sudden silence. For a moment, no one spoke. The car was a wreck. Both sides were deeply gouged, the windows were gone, and the front was crumpled from the impact with the truck.

  Reese ran a hand through his hair, the glass crunching under his fingers. His custom-tailored suit was ruined. His confidence was shattered. This wasn't a negotiation. This wasn't business. This was a declaration of war. Meeka had been right. He had been naive.

  Declan turned in his seat to face him. His expression was pure ice. “That was professional, Mr. O’Malley. They weren’t trying to scare you. They were trying to kill you. They used a roadblock, a blocking car, and heavy weapons. They wanted you dead.”

  Reese nodded slowly, the reality sinking in like a cold stone in his gut. The smooth-talking Sicilians with their fancy yacht weren’t just clumsy. They were ruthless. They had just tried to assassinate him in broad daylight.

  “They made a mistake,” Reese said, his voice low and hard, the diplomat vanishing, replaced by something colder. Something that sounded a lot more like his sister.

  Declan pulled out a satellite phone, not the one for regular business, but the one for emergencies. “I need to call this in.”

  Reese met his gaze. The salt-laced wind blew through the shattered windows, carrying the peaceful sound of the waves. It was a stark contrast to the violence that they had just escaped.

  “Get me Meeka,” Reese commanded. “Now.”