#Cesare's Villa, Venice — Late Morning#
The villa stood cloaked in ancient ivy, a stone fortress resting on the edge of the canal like a sleeping beast. Inside, Cesare Bianchi poured himself a glass of Barolo, crimson like the past he tried to drown.
He wore a linen shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, gold chain glinting faintly beneath it. He was older now—lines cut deeper into his once-charming face, but the eyes were still sharp, reptilian.
A woman—half his age—laughed softly from the velvet sheets behind him.
"Come back to bed, tesoro."
Cesare smirked, drained his glass.
"Not yet, amore. I need to check the security feed."
"You're always watching. Don't you trust your men?"
He didn't answer. He was already crossing the room, bare feet silent on marble floors. The surveillance room smelled like cold metal and cigarettes. Five screens flickered. Gates, corridors, alleyways.
"Anything?" asked Emilio, his youngest guard.
Cesare watched a bird land on the edge of the east balcony.
"No. Just ghosts," he muttered.
But there it was again—that feeling.
A low hum beneath his ribs. Not fear. Not yet.
Something darker.
"Ho fatto tutto giusto..." (I did everything right...) he whispered to himself.
"Perché sento che sto per morire?" (Then why do I feel like I'm about to die?)
He didn't believe in spirits or saints. But lately, he'd started locking his bedroom door. Watching reflections. Dreaming in blood.
Alessandro Black's name had haunted his sleep for years.
Now, it was Sienna who wore the crown.
The widow with a vendetta and a child with his father's eyes.
And still—he had dared to stay in Venice.
Because Ricci had promised: "They won't touch you."
Cesare lit a cigarette, hand shaking just slightly.
"They won't find me," he said aloud.
But the bird on the balcony didn't move.
And outside, in the fog, two shadows approached.
---
Glass and Blood
Outside Cesare's Villa — Noon, Fog Rolling In
The alley was silent.
Lía checked her wristwatch. Two minutes until the servant made his delivery run through the kitchen entrance. Just enough time. She glanced at Alessio.
He wore all black. A tactical turtleneck, soft leather gloves, dark slacks. No emblem. No insignia. Just shadow. His jaw was clenched. Calm—but deadly.
"We go through the kitchen," Lía said, voice low.
"You take the stairs. Second floor. Master bedroom."
"Cesare?" Alessio asked.
"Mine," she replied.
Alessio didn't argue. Not this time.
They moved like wraiths—silent, clean.
The kitchen guard barely had time to blink before Alessio's blade slid across his throat, not a sound escaping. They dragged the body behind the pantry door and advanced.
Two floors. Two guards. No alarms.
Alessio moved quickly—up the marble staircase, steps soft as whispers.
Focus. No hesitation. Sienna's son doesn't miss.
At the door to the master suite, he paused.
And that's when he heard her voice—the woman. Laughing.
Cesare was not alone.
He turned to signal Lía—
But she was already gone. Silent as shadow, slipping through the east hall.
---
Back Inside: Cesare's Villa, Seconds Later
Cesare poured himself another drink.
His mistress—Elena—lay half-covered in silk. She glanced toward the window.
"Why are the birds so still?" she asked.
"They know what you don't," Cesare replied, smirking.
He turned. Looked in the mirror behind the bar.
That's when he saw it—her reflection.
Not Elena's.
Not his own.
But Lía. Standing just inside the room, hair tied back, eyes dark, blade already drawn.
"Cosa...?" (What…?)
"Cesare Bianchi," she said, voice like death.
"Your time is up."
He spun, reaching for the gun under the bar—
Too slow.
She threw the dagger—straight into his hand—pinning it to the wood.
He screamed.
"Per favore! Please! Don't—!"
She walked slowly toward him. No rush. No emotion.
"This isn't from me," she whispered.
"È da parte di Sienna Black." (It's from Sienna Black.)
She leaned in, just as Cesare trembled and sobbed, blood soaking the floor beneath him.
And she kissed his cheek—her crimson lips leaving the mark.
"Un bacio per l'inferno." (A kiss for hell.)
Then the blade sank home.
---
No More Saints
Inside Cesare's Villa — Minutes Later
The scream had faded.
Alessio moved with precision through the second floor corridor, gun drawn, steps light. Blood smeared the hallway marble—fresh, not his. He followed it.
He entered the master suite just as Lía was standing over Cesare's lifeless body, calm, lips crimson.
> "You didn't wait," he said quietly.
> "He didn't deserve ceremony," she replied.
Alessio's eyes swept the room. No guards. No mistress.
The bed was empty. The scent of perfume still hung in the air.
> "Someone else was here," he said. "She's gone."
Lía looked to the open balcony.
> "Let her go. She saw nothing. She's not part of the list."
He nodded, though something about that didn't sit right.
Still, the job was done.
Lía pressed a photo to Cesare's chest. A black-and-white wedding portrait of Alessandro and Sienna. It was torn at the corner.
> "Let the devil know who sent him."
They walked out silently. Venice never noticed.
---
#Ricci, Fractured Crown#
Rome, Private Estate — Three Hours Later
The news came in like a punch.
Ricci sat in his study, wrapped in shadows, cigar burning between trembling fingers. A bodyguard, pale and shaken, delivered the words:
"Cesare Bianchi. Dead. Stabbed. Marked."
"Marked?" Ricci hissed.
The man nodded, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Red lipstick. The lips. The message."
"Then say it!" Ricci roared, slamming the desk.
"Whose name was written in blood?"
"Sienna Black."
Silence.
Ricci stood. Calm at first. Then his face cracked like porcelain. His rage poured out like oil.
"Figlia di puttana…" (Daughter of a whore...)
"She said nothing for years. I thought it was over."
He threw the glass against the wall—shards rained down like judgment.
"She's waited... planned... let me breathe long enough to think I'd won."
He looked around the room—bodyguards, assistants, none of them spoke.
"I want double detail on every exit. Everyone armed. I want eyes on every continent. You hear me? Every continent."
But inside, Ricci already knew.
She was coming for him.
Not now.
Not next week.
But eventually.
And she wouldn't miss.
He reached for his old passport. A different name. A different life.
"Get the jet. I'm flying out tonight. Accra. Ghana. Call our people there. New IDs. New house. I want everything clean."
The guards hesitated.
"DO IT!" he thundered. "Before she finds me too."
---
The King had fled.
The Queen still sat in silence.
But her crown dripped blood.
---
#The Woman Who Died to Live#
Tuscany – Villa Rosso, 21 Years Ago
The house was cloaked in silence.
Alessandro's name still echoed through the corridors, but his voice had been gone for weeks. In his place: grief. Whispers. Suspicion.
Sienna lay in bed, pale, eyes closed. Her skin appeared sunken, lips cracked. A physician stood by, shaking his head.
"She's not eating. The grief is killing her," he murmured.
"No," said Lía coldly. "It's already done."
The official report spread quickly: Sienna Black, widow of Mafia Lord Alessandro, poisoned by heartbreak—or perhaps treachery.
Her body was never buried. Only a closed casket.
A funeral shrouded in rain and roses.
But in the villa's underground chamber, below layers of stone and silence, Sienna sat up slowly—alive, skin healthy, eyes burning.
She had chosen her moment to die, so she could finally live for war.
---
Later That Night – Underground Quarters
Lía stood over her, arms folded.
"The world thinks you're dead."
"Good," Sienna said, adjusting the black veil in her hands.
"They'll lower their guard."
"What if Ricci doesn't show himself again?"
"He will," Sienna replied, voice like thunder wrapped in silk.
"They always do."
She stood and walked over to the mirror. Her hair was loose now, a single black diamond nestled in her collarbone.
One hand caressed her stomach. She was already showing.
"I'll raise my son in silence. In strength. No bloodshed… until it's time."
"How long will you wait?" Lía asked.
"As long as it takes."
Sienna turned slowly, eyes meeting Lía's.
"But listen to me carefully, sorella," she whispered.
"If you ever see Ricci—if you get close—don't kill him."
"Just give me his location."
She picked up a crimson matte lipstick and uncapped it slowly.
"Because I will kiss him crimson myself."
"Con le mie labbra rosse." (With my red lips.)
Lía didn't smile.
But she nodded.
"It will be done."
---
#Ashes in the Sun#
Accra, Ghana — 4 Months After Cesare's Death
The estate was nestled in the Eastern Region, high-walled, draped in flowering trees. From the outside, it looked like a paradise. Inside, Ricci had built a fortress.
He paced the marble floor of his study, watching the horizon like it might whisper her name.
"She's dead."
He'd said it aloud so many times, it had lost its meaning. But Cesare's death… the lipstick… the wedding photo…
"Or someone wants me to believe she isn't."
He wasn't sleeping. Hired new guards—locals this time. Changed his name to "Robert C." Changed his voice, his clothing, even stopped wearing cologne.
But still, the fear lingered.
He lit a cigar, hand trembling.
"Twenty-one years… why now? Why not strike when I was wide open? Why let me breathe?"
One of his lieutenants stepped in—Kwaku, a former arms smuggler with calm eyes.
"Boss, all clear. Nobody's followed us here. Locals say no whispers, no sightings. You're safe."
Ricci nodded.
"Safe. Yeah." Then he stared Kwaku dead in the eyes.
"That's exactly when she'll come."
---
Later That Night
He dreamed of blood.
Not his.
Hers.
Only it wasn't blood. It was lipstick. And it was on his cheek.
He woke in a sweat, hand on the gun under his pillow.
No sound. No footsteps.
But there was something on his nightstand that wasn't there before.
A folded photo.
He reached out slowly… opened it.
A picture of Alessandro and Sienna.
Same one that was left on Cesare's body.
The corner was torn.
And on the back, in crimson script:
"One left.
With love,
—Le figlie della notte.*" (The Daughters of the Night)
---
Ricci dropped the photo. It fluttered to the floor.
Then he did something he hadn't done in over a decade.
He cried.
Not because he was weak.
But because he knew—she wasn't dead.
She was watching.
And she was patient.
---
#A Thin Line of Fire#
Venice – The Morning After
The sun filtered in through the heavy curtains of the canal-side apartment. Water lapped gently at the edges of the building, and the scent of salt hung in the breeze. But inside the room… silence.
Alessio stood by the tall windows, shirt unbuttoned, curls still damp from the shower. His jaw clenched in quiet thought. He hadn't slept—not because he couldn't, but because Lía had slept so easily beside him, like she trusted him completely.
It was unsettling. And alluring.
Behind him, Lía stirred beneath the crisp sheets.
"You're up early," she murmured, voice low with sleep.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied. "Dreamt of shadows and women in red."
She chuckled softly, sitting up, the sheet slipping down her shoulder. Her bare skin caught the light like marble.
"You've been dreaming of me, then?"
He turned to her, dark eyes sharp. But she didn't flinch.
"Sei pericolosa, Lía." (You're dangerous, Lía.)
"Lo so." (I know.)
She rose and walked toward him, pulling a loose robe over her frame, tying it with slow precision.
"We both know what this is," she said.
"We're soldiers of a legacy. Your mother's. My own. This—" she gestured between them, "—was never part of the mission."
"But it's real."
"That's the danger," she whispered.
---
Later That Day – A Rooftop Café in San Polo
They sat across from each other, espresso cups half full, a folder between them.
Inside: photos. Men. Details. Movements.
Targets.
But neither of them opened it yet.
Alessio studied her. The soft curve of her lip. The callous at her trigger finger. The way her eyes always scanned the street even while laughing.
"How old were you when my mother took you in?" he asked.
"Twelve," Lía said. "The streets in Colombia were soaked in blood. I thought I knew cruelty until I met her. And then I saw what discipline looked like."
"She saved you."
"No. She sharpened me."
She finally looked up at him, her eyes softening only slightly.
"But you… you soften her."
Alessio blinked. That surprised him.
"She never wanted softness in me."
"That's why she needs it most."
Their hands brushed.
And for a moment—just one—Venice fell quiet.
---
#Where Fire Sleeps in Shadow#
Venice – Just After Dusk
A gondola cut through the canal like a black blade. Candles flickered in the windows above. Somewhere, a violin played low and broken, like a memory trying not to be forgotten.
Lía leaned back against the velvet of the gondola seat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the night.
Alessio watched her. Not like a man watches a lover. Like a soldier watches a weapon he doesn't know how to disarm.
> "You always this calm?" he asked.
"Only when I'm not thinking about who I might have to kill next."
He gave a crooked smile.
"And now?"
"Now," she said, opening her eyes slowly, "I'm thinking about you."
---
They reached the small stone dock.
He offered her his hand. She didn't need it. She took it anyway.
The apartment they returned to was quiet. No weapons laid out. No maps. No names. Just a bottle of wine on the counter, and two glasses waiting.
"Rosso toscano," Alessio said, uncorking it.
"Your mother's favorite."
"She always said it tasted like blood and forgiveness."
Lía took a slow sip.
"And which are you?" she asked.
"Blood or forgiveness?"
"You tell me," he said, stepping closer.
---
The silence became charged.
Not awkward. Not sweet.
Electric.
Lía's eyes didn't drop. Her fingers tightened around the glass.
"You know what this is," she said quietly.
"We're raised to know the cost of distraction."
"Then why haven't you stopped looking at me?" he replied.
No answer. Just her lips—slightly parted. And his hand, reaching to tuck a curl behind her ear.
"Questo è un errore." (This is a mistake.)
"Then stop me."
She didn't.
Their lips met like a secret—soft, then fierce, then breathless.
No music. No moans.
Only the sound of two weapons learning to fall apart.
---
Later That Night
They lay in silence. Lía's head on his chest. Alessio staring at the ceiling, arm curled around her.
"Promise me something," she whispered.
"Anything."
"If I fall first, you finish it."
He looked down.
"Don't say that."
"Promettimelo." (Promise me.)
He swallowed.
"I promise."
Outside, the bells of Venice rang once.
Then silence again.
And far across the sea, Sienna Black lit a cigarette, watching a map of the world slowly burn at the edges.
---