The burning wood seared Bruno's bare arm — blisters rose in seconds. He was screaming. The revolver clattered onto the stones.

I rode him down. Drove my knee into his chest. Put the stiletto right under his eye, close enough that the tip felt his lashes flicker.

"Tell every one of them to back up. Or I take the eye. Then I cut your tendons."

The blade was less than a millimeter from his pupil. Bruno wet himself. The smell of it rose up between us.

"Back up. BACK THE FUCK UP. Uncle, help me, this woman's really gonna do it."

Don Salvo had gone gray. He hadn't read me right. He hadn't realized how far I'd take it.

"Sofia. Calm down. You kill him, that's a life sentence. Put the knife down. We can talk this through."

"A life sentence. I'll die here tonight if it means I take all of Porto Scuro down with me. You think I won't?"

My eyes were red. The blade pressed in a fraction. It nicked his eyelid. Hot blood ran into his eye and clouded his vision.

The crowd backed up — fast, opening a clear circle around us. No one was moving anymore.

But it wasn't over.

There were still hundreds of them around us. In the dark, rings of greedy, ugly eyes.

Marco was on the ground, breath barely there, blood pooling under him. Rosa and Giulia were crying so hard they could hardly stand. The whole place felt like a grave.

Something heavy settled in my chest.

So was this it? Was I really going to die here, in this nothing fishing town? Sofia Ferrante walks Naples for twenty years and ends up done in by a handful of village punks?

Don Salvo, watching me hesitate, found his nerve again. Something cold and ugly came back into his face.

"Don't be afraid of her, all of you. She won't really do it. Wear her down. She's one woman, she'll run out of fight. When she does, we move."

The circle started to tighten again.

I clenched my teeth. Last stand. If I was going down, I was taking some of them with me.

That's when it started.

A wind came in off the harbor, hard and wrong, the kind that doesn't belong to any normal weather.

Strong enough you couldn't keep your eyes open. The masts down at the dock began to whip back and forth. Sand and bits of grit came off the ground and stung anything they hit.

Then came the noise.

Far off, then closer, low and growing. The stones under our feet started vibrating.

"What is that? Earthquake?" Don Salvo was looking around, scared.

The sound built until your eardrums hurt.

Then headlights. Hard white beams cutting through the dark.

Dozens of black Mercedes SUVs and heavy trucks came roaring up the narrow main road of Porto Scuro, lights blazing.

The wooden barricades and fishmongers' stalls in their way crumpled like paper.

Don Salvo was staring at the plates. Naples plates. No, more than Naples — Milan, Rome. A few he didn't even recognize. Sweat broke out across his forehead. For the first time he understood: whatever was coming for him tonight, he had never met its kind.

And above —

Three black helicopters were coming down. The rotors threw a hurricane through the square. Searchlight beams pinned the warehouse yard.

The light was blinding. The crowd dropped what they were holding and tried to scatter. Screaming, falling over each other.

"Oh God, what is this? Helicopters? In Porto Scuro?"

"It's the mob. They're here. Run!"

The choppers held position. Heavy ropes uncoiled and dropped.

Dozens of men in black tailored suits and silver-rimmed shades came down the lines, fast and clean, identical movement. They had every high point in the square locked down inside ten seconds.

The trucks settled. The cargo doors went up.

A few hundred more men poured out, kitted out, and folded the townspeople into a circle of their own. Tighter than the one we'd been in.

The whole picture flipped. The Porto Scuro thugs who'd been swaggering minutes ago were huddled together now, trembling.

A long black Mercedes S-class with Naples plates rolled slowly up through the parted crowd.

The door opened.

A pair of polished black handmade shoes touched down on the stones.