Minister of Internal Affairs Mario Conte loosened his tie, his eyes bloodshot.

Over the past year, the number of refugees and illegal immigrants pouring into Italy has reached new heights. The turmoil in North Africa, the ongoing conflicts in the Middle East, and the economic recession in Eastern Europe have flooded the Mediterranean with desperate smuggling boats.

Italy’s reception system had long since collapsed, local governments grumbled, and the support for far-right parties in polls skyrocketed.

"Minister, there was another riot at the Lampedusa camp, with two hundred people injured, mainly due to fights among the immigrants. The local mayor has threatened that if the central government does not take action, he will declare a state of emergency on the island and refuse to accept new boats," reported an official.

"Customs at Genoa Port reported that twenty smuggled immigrants, in severe condition, were found in a batch of ’clothing’ containers from Turkey. Two died while being transported to the hospital. The smuggling network’s methods are becoming increasingly covert," another official added.

Conte rubbed his temples. These were old issues, but each was getting worse. The endless quota disputes within the European Union, France and Austria frequently closing their borders, Germany taking the most but facing immense internal backlash — Italy was like a piece of cheese placed over a flame, bearing the melting pressure alone.

"Minister, there’s one more thing..." A representative from the intelligence department, a pale-faced man, hesitated to speak, "We’ve detected an increase in unusual communication traffic along the West Africa to Southern Europe route. Some... non-traditional smuggling networks are active, possibly not limited to human trafficking."

"Drugs?" Conte immediately became alert.

"Not certain. But signs indicate they have more professional ships and logistics than ordinary pirates or smugglers. We’ve intercepted some fragmented encrypted communications mentioning ’new goods,’ ’big market,’ and ’Lightning.’ The DEA and Europol also shared similar intelligence, suspecting a new, organized drug network trying to exploit the chaotic border control in the Mediterranean to infiltrate Europe."

"Specific sources? Organizers?"

The intelligence officer shook his head: "Very vague. It could be related to some emerging armed drug-trafficking groups in Africa, or possibly backed by forces with Eastern Europe or Balkans background. Their communications use multilayered encryption and hops, making it difficult to trace the source. More troubling..." he paused, "we suspect some local European crime groups, and possibly even a few corrupt officials, might be facilitating them. After all, the refugees’ plight offers them perfect cover."

Conte felt a splitting headache. The refugee crisis had already overwhelmed the government, and if combined with large-scale organized drug infiltration, it would be a complete disaster. Drugs meant more severe street crime, gang conflicts, police resources stretched to the limit, and social division.

"Enhance coastal monitoring, especially during nights and low visibility conditions. Notify the financial intelligence unit to monitor unusual financial flows, especially between West Africa, Eastern Europe, and Italy. Strengthen intelligence sharing with France, Spain, and Malta... Forget it, the French are now only concerned with their own elections." Conte gave orders, yet felt a deep sense of helplessness. Italy’s coastline was too long, resources too limited, and the adversaries... seemingly omnipresent.

He walked to the window, gazing at the night view of Rome. This ancient imperial city now seemed weary and fragile. The glory of Europe appeared to be eroding bit by bit by the tide from the south. And the tide brought not only refugees seeking survival but also more dangerous predators lurking beneath the water.

He recalled the news from the recent Mexico summit. That emerging power was talking about a "new order" and "global cooperation," while Europe was embroiled in arguments over border control and refugee quotas. A deep sense of powerlessness and anger welled up inside him.

"To hell with the damn European Union." He cursed under his breath, with only the window glass reflecting his distorted reflection.

France, Marseille, Old Port District.

The night air in Marseille’s Old Port carried the mixed scents of the seafood market, cheap perfume, and a faint aroma of marijuana. Neon lights cast a dreamy glow on the narrow streets, and people of different colors lingered outside bars and cafes. Here was Marseille, the gateway to the Mediterranean, and a crucial hub in the underworld of France and Southern Europe.

In the dimly lit backyard of a seemingly ordinary North African restaurant, three men sat around a small table, with mint tea and leftover tagine in front of them.

At the head of the table sat Anthony Costa, known as the "Godfather," a key figure of the local Corsican gang in Marseille. Nearing sixty, his hair was graying, but his eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s. To his left was a lean Arab man, Samir, who controlled the drug retail network in the northern districts of Marseille. On the right was a new face, with dark skin, a scarred face, wearing an ill-fitting suit. He was one of the advance team leaders sent by the Black Mamba, codenamed "Scorpion."

"Twenty tons? Are you crazy?" Samir nearly spilled his tea cup at the proposed supply amount in broken French by "Scorpion," "Marseille couldn’t consume that much in a month! And with such high purity, priced thirty percent lower than the Colombian supply? Are you trying to crash the market?"

"Not crash, occupy," responded "Scorpion" calmly, with a West African French accent, "We don’t want retail. We want wholesaling. To you, Mr. Costa, and the distributors you trust. Use our goods to squeeze out the Colombians, Moroccans, and Albanians’ shares. Low price is just the start; once the channels are opened, we can negotiate prices gradually."