A black Maserati roared through the dimly lit streets of Naples, its tires screeching as it took a sharp turn. Inside, Luca Valentini leaned back in the passenger seat, blood staining the crisp white of his shirt. The metallic scent filled the car, but he barely acknowledged the pain lacing through his side. He had been shot before—this wasn’t new.

What was new was the way the night had spiraled out of control.