Chapter 1

February in New Haven was bitterly cold.

A cold wind laden with a salty, fishy mist swept in from the harbor and filled every street and alley in the city.

Wrapping himself tightly in an old coat he had bought at a thrift store, Alessandro Moretti walked along Ninth Street in the North District toward a nightclub owned by the Calvino family.

His shoes slipped on the icy sidewalk, and his fingers were stiff with cold. Every few steps, he shoved his hands into his pockets to warm them.

Two months earlier, he hadn’t been Alessandro Costa.

His real name was Alessandro Moretti, a 25-year-old DEA agent with badge number D-1137.

He had just completed 14 months of specialized undercover training at a base near Langley, Virginia.

Language specialists had repeatedly refined his Sicilian accent, psychologists had taught him how to construct a sense of self through lies, and combat instructors had thrown him onto the mat time and time again until his body learned to fight back without regard for the consequences.

On the last Friday of December, Hoffman handed him a new ID card bearing an unfamiliar surname: Costa.

"From now on, you are Alessandro Costa. Your father was from Palermo, Sicily, and your mother was from Naples. You immigrated to the United States with your parents at age eight, and they died in a car accident when you were twenty. You have no other relatives, no roots, and no ties. You hung out with a small gang in Chicago for two years, doing jobs like collecting debts and fending off creditors. Later, when the boss was arrested, you fled to the East Coast. You need to find a way to make a living. You need to survive."

Hoffman kept his eyes fixed on Costa as he spoke.

His eyes were gray, like the surface of a frozen lake, devoid of unnecessary emotion.

He pushed a thick file across the table. On top lay a black-and-white photograph of a man in a dark suit walking out of the courthouse doors, his expression impassive as if the whole world owed him an explanation.

"You have only one target," Hoffman said, tapping his fingertip on the man’s chest in the photograph.

"Vincent Calvino. The godfather of the Calvino family. We want you to infiltrate his inner circle."

Alessandro took the photo and stared at the young yet cold face in it for a long time. He had dark hair, dark eyes, thick Italian eyebrows, and lips pressed into a line so thin that it was barely curved. A corner of his coat was blown up by the wind in the photo, yet he stood completely still, like a rock washed by the sea for many years that had never budged.

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-four.”

Thirty-four. Only nine years older than himself.

He was a 34-year-old man who controlled most of the union in the East Coast docklands, three shipping companies, and countless underground casinos and bars. He was also rumored to have at least a dozen victims.

Alessandro tucked the photo into his jacket pocket and said to Hoffman, "Got it."

"One more thing." Hoffman pulled another photo from the folder and placed it in front of Alessandro. "Keep an eye on these two as well."

The photo showed two women.

One was slightly older with dark hair tied in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder. Her features were sharp, as if carved with a knife. Her eyes were sunken beneath her brow bones like two bottomless pools of black water.

She wore a simple black sweater and stood in the shadows of a warehouse on a pier. Her profile was turned toward the camera as if she were waiting for someone—or something—to die.

The other woman was younger with a short boyish haircut.

She bore distinct Irish features: light-colored eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and freckles scattered across her cheekbones.

However, her expression was unlike that of a young girl. She stepped out of a doorway with her face turned slightly to the side and a wary look on her lips, as if ready to bite at any moment.

"Elena Martini and Rosa Valente," said Hoffman.

"Two female assassins working for Calvino." Martini is the lead operative, linked to at least seven murders since 1973. However, she’s too clean; there’s no direct evidence against her. Valente is her partner. She didn’t join the inner circle until 1980, but she’s more dangerous. She has absolutely no limits."

Aleksandro put that photo away as well.

“What’s their relationship?”

Hoffman glanced at him. "Partners. Nothing more.”

That night, back in his dorm room, he stood in front of the mirror and repeated the name over and over: Alessandro Costa.

He repeated it countless times until the syllables lost all meaning, becoming a string of hollow phonetic symbols—like waves repeatedly washing over a rock until it becomes smooth, unfamiliar, and unrecognizable.

Now, he stood under a streetlight on Ninth Street, facing a nightclub called "The Gulf."

Neon tubes on the lintel spelled out "GULF," casting a blurry blue halo into the thick fog. He could hear his heartbeat drumming deep within his eardrums. His fingers clenched and unclenched in his pocket. His palms were drenched in sweat.

The door opened from the inside.

A stocky man poked his head out and sized him up from head to toe. The man had thick eyebrows and a crooked nose, as if it had been broken and not set properly. His gaze lingered on Alessandro’s old coat for a moment before shifting to his face.

“Who the hell are you?”

"My name is Costa," Alessandro said, his voice steadier than he’d expected. "I'm from Chicago. Someone told me I could find a way to make a living here.”

The stocky man was silent for a few seconds.

During those seconds, Alessandro could feel his heart racing, but he forced his facial muscles to remain relaxed.

He’d trained himself to do this—to keep his face relaxed under pressure so that anyone scrutinizing him would see a face that held no secrets.

The man tilted his head toward the doorway. "Come in. It’s cold out here.”

The man’s name was Joey Barbato, a fact that Alessandro would only learn later.

He led the man into an office deep inside the nightclub and had him sit on the sofa and wait for nearly two hours. The office reeked of cigar smoke and aged whiskey. On the wall hung a painting of the Virgin Mary with a withered sprig of rosemary at her feet.

It was a Sicilian custom; rosemary was used to ward off evil spirits and protect the home. Alessandro’s mother had once placed rosemary on the kitchen windowsill as well.

“Don’t think about your mother. Don't think about your home in the South District. You are Costa. You have no home.

He sat on the old sofa, listening to the soft music and the occasional burst of laughter coming from the other side of the wall.

His gaze swept over every corner of the office.

The filing cabinet in the corner was unlocked. The ashtray on the desk held cigarette butts from three different brands. The calendar on the wall was open to January 1982, and the 17^(th) had been circled in red with an unreadable Sicilian word beside it.

The door finally opened.