The villa glowed under the Tuscan moon, bathed in golden candlelight and the low hum of string instruments playing on the marble terrace. Villa Rosso had never looked more radiant, nor had Sienna Black.
One year had passed since she married Alessandro — twelve months of power, politics, whispered threats, and whispered kisses. Tonight, however, was not about business. It was about love. Or so she thought.
Sienna stood at the top of the grand staircase, her figure sheathed in black velvet that shimmered like oil beneath the chandeliers. Her long hair was swept up into a loose claw clip, exposing her sharp collarbones and the midnight glint of the black diamond choker resting at her throat. Matching earrings caught the light with every breath she took. On her ring finger — the same one Alessandro had kissed when he placed the wedding band — glittered a dark stone, like the night sky captured in a gem.
"Sei bellissima," Alessandro whispered in her ear as they danced. (You are beautiful.)
She smiled, resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath his tailored suit. He smelled of oud, tobacco, and danger — a scent she had grown to love more than life itself.
They were halfway through their waltz, the floor clearing to give them space, guests clapping softly, admiring the queen and king of a shadow empire. Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter rang out. The air was warm with summer and expensive wine.
Then the shot rang out.
A single crack — sharp, clean — that sliced through the music and shattered the world.
Sienna felt it before she saw it. Alessandro's body jerked violently, arms loosening around her, breath leaving in a guttural gasp. Her hand caught his back, but it was too late — blood was already blooming across the front of his white shirt, spilling against her black dress like a warning.
"Alessandro...!"
The room erupted. Screams tore through the hall. Glass shattered. Someone yelled, "A terra!" (Get down!) as men in suits scrambled, drawing weapons, rushing to shield, to retaliate, to survive.
But Sienna didn't move.
She dropped to her knees beside her husband, the velvet of her dress soaking up his blood like a sponge. Her hands, trembling moments ago from love, now shook with something colder, deeper. She cradled his face. His eyes were wide, mouth twitching to form her name, but the words died in his throat.
And then, silence.
Not around her—around him. His chest stilled. His gaze faded. Just like that, Alessandro Black — Don of the Black Family, her husband, her king — was gone.
Sienna didn't hear the chaos. Didn't hear the panic or the gunfire outside.
She only saw him.
Up on the stone balcony. Masked. Dressed in black. The muzzle of the rifle still smoking as he stared down at her — not with haste, but satisfaction. As if this was always part of the plan.
Their eyes met. One heartbeat. Two.
And then he turned and vanished into the night.
Sienna's body finally moved — not with grief, but with purpose. She stood slowly, t
he hem of her gown heavy with blood, and whispered words only the dead could hear.
"Ti troverò. Lo giuro su di lui." (I will find you. I swear it on him.)
---
# Silenzio dei Corvi (The Silence of the Crows)#
Three Days After the Funeral – Napoli
It rained the day they buried Alessandro Black.
Not the gentle kind of rain that comforts the grieving — this was cold, merciless, and without pause. The type that soaked through skin and bone, as if the heavens themselves were indifferent to loss.
Sienna stood by the black casket beneath a canopy of umbrellas and black coats, her face pale and unreadable. She wore no veil. No tears touched her cheeks. Her hair was twisted into a severe knot, her lips painted the color of dried wine, and her black diamond choker sat at her throat like a collar of defiance.
One hand rested on the casket.
The other clutched a single red rose.
The men around her — capos, allies, "friends" — watched her carefully. Some in sorrow. Some in fear. And others with something colder in their eyes.
She stepped forward, standing before the silent crowd. Her voice, when it came, was low — steel wrapped in velvet.
"Mi avete detto che era il nostro re." (You all told me he was our king.)
She looked up, eyes burning beneath the overcast sky.
"Ma dov'erano i suoi cavalieri, quando il sangue ha macchiato la mia veste da sera?" (But where were his knights, when blood stained my evening gown?)
No one answered.
"Mio marito era molte cose: duro, intelligente, spietato. Ma non era stupido. Se è morto… è perché qualcuno ha lasciato entrare il lupo tra le pecore."
(My husband was many things: hard, brilliant, ruthless. But he wasn't a fool. If he died… it's because someone let the wolf among the sheep.)
A few exchanged glances. Others lowered their eyes. She tossed the rose onto the coffin and stepped back. No tears. No breakdown. Only fire.
That night, the Black Family met in the study of Villa Rosso.
The seats once occupied by Alessandro's most loyal men now felt colder, quieter. Sienna stood at the head of the long oak table, wearing a black silk blouse and slacks. No jewelry. No smiles.
"Chi è stato?" she asked plainly. (Who was it?)
Silence.
She looked to Marco, Alessandro's former consigliere. He fidgeted, avoiding her gaze. Too slow, she noted.
Then to Ricci, the Palermo capo. His jacket still damp from the rain, eyes darting — but not to her. To the door.
"Uno di voi ha venduto il suo sangue." (One of you sold his blood.)
Still, silence. Still, fear.
She leaned forward slightly. Calm. Controlled.
"Vi darò tre giorni. Chiunque confessi, morirà rapidamente. Chi tace, morirà lentamente."
(I will give you three days. Whoever confesses dies quickly. Whoever stays silent dies slowly.)
She walked out before anyone could speak, her heels echoing across the marble like war drums.
That night, alone in Alessandro's study, she poured herself a glass of Barolo and stared at the wall where his portrait once hung. It had been removed after the funeral. She hated the emptiness it left behind.
She pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk.
There it was. A file marked only with one word:
"Verità." (Truth)
Inside: a list of names, notes in Alessandro's clean handwriting. Meetings. Suspicious money movements. A coded message:
"If I die, it's not from outside. It's from within. Trust no one. Not even him."
Him.
Sienna felt her stomach twist. One name on the list had a red X beside it.
Ricci.
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
She had three days.
Then, the vendetta would begin.
---
Villa Rosso – Midnight
Sienna didn't sleep.
Sleep was for the weak. For the safe. For those who had the luxury of believing they would wake up whole.
She had forfeited that right the moment crimson stained her gown.
In the quiet hours of the night, she moved through Villa Rosso like a shadow. Every room had a memory — the first glass of wine she shared with Alessandro on the terrace, the private meetings in the study, the hallway where they made plans between kisses and whispers. Now it was all ghosts.
"Il lutto è una maschera," she murmured to herself. (Grief is a mask.)
And hers was already slipping.
The file labeled Verità never left her sight. She read it over and over until the ink bled into her mind. It wasn't just Ricci with an X. There were other names. Lesser men. Ambitious. Desperate. Men who had everything to gain from Alessandro's death — and everything to lose if Sienna chose to rise.
But she wouldn't just rise.
She would burn the ground they stood on.
---
#Napoli – Hidden Bar, Quartieri Spagnoli#
Three nights after the funeral, Sienna walked into Il Gatto Nero — a bar that served as a neutral ground for information brokers, fixers, and exiles. She wore a blood-red coat over her all-black attire. No guards. No entourage. Just her presence — and the weight of her name.
The bartender froze when he saw her.
"Signora Black…"
"Voglio parlare con Arturo." (I want to speak to Arturo.)
Arturo was old, blind in one eye, and sharper than a scalpel. He'd served Alessandro information for years — but had never once met Sienna in person. Until now.
He bowed his head. "Condoglianze." (My condolences.)
"Risparmiamele." she said coldly. (Spare me.)
She slid the file across the table, opened to Ricci's name. "Cosa sai di lui?" (What do you know about him?)
Arturo leaned forward, sniffing the power on her like perfume. "Ha fatto chiamate a Marsiglia… due settimane prima della morte di tuo marito."
(He made calls to Marseille... two weeks before your husband's death.)
"Chi ha risposto?"
"Il Lupo." The Wolf. A contract killer. "E Ricci ha mandato denaro a una banca svizzera, intestata a un nome falso. Alessio Nero."
(Who answered? / The Wolf... and Ricci wired money to a Swiss account under a false name: Alessio Nero.)
Sienna's jaw tensed. Nero — black. Her name, twisted and used as camouflage.
"Posso mandarti i dettagli. Ma costerà." (I can send you the details. But it will cost.)
She smiled faintly, handing him a white envelope already prepared. "Alessandro mi ha insegnato a pagare prima di chiedere."
(Alessandro taught me to pay before I ask.)
---
#Back at Villa Rosso#
By dawn, Sienna had a full list of names — allies turned liabilities, men who kissed her hand at the funeral while wearing the stink of treachery.
She called Marco.
"Chiama i capi. Riunione. Solo quelli che non erano con Ricci il giorno della festa."
(Call the capos. Meeting. Only those who weren't with Ricci on the day of the party.)
"E Ricci?" Marco asked.
Sienna looked out over the vineyards, sunlight just touching the blood-red roses Alessandro planted for her.
"Lui avrà la sua udienza privata." (He'll have his private audience.)
---
The pieces were moving. Sienna wasn't mourning. She was hunting.
And the wolves in her house were about to learn:
The queen doesn't cry.
She cleanses.
---
#Villa Rosso – The Study#
The air in the study was heavier now. As if Alessandro's absence hung in the rafters, whispering warnings into the silence.
Sienna sat behind his desk for the first time — not on the edge, not beside him, but in his chair. A glass of Grappa untouched in front of her. The file marked Verità lay open beside a loaded Beretta.
Marco arrived late.
Always too careful.
He entered with his usual quiet reverence, dressed in charcoal gray, silver hair slicked back, eyes lowered — the look of a man who had survived too many wars and forgotten how to rest.
"Signora…" he said gently, like she was still fragile.
She cut him off.
"Da quanto tempo sai che Ricci parlava con Marsiglia?" (How long have you known Ricci was speaking with Marseille?)
Marco blinked. His silence was his first mistake.
"Sienna—"
"Rispondi alla domanda." (Answer the question.)
A pause. Then, the faintest sigh.
"Un mese. Ma Alessandro mi aveva detto di non agire."
(A month. But Alessandro told me not to act.)
"Perché?"
Marco stepped forward, hands in view. "Perché non voleva allarmarti. Disse che lo stava osservando. Che era troppo presto per colpire."
(Because he didn't want to alarm you. He said he was watching him. That it was too soon to strike.)
Sienna's jaw clenched. Her hand rested on the Beretta, fingers brushing the cold metal.
"E quando è morto? Perché non mi hai detto niente, Marco?"
(And when he died? Why didn't you tell me anything, Marco?)
His eyes, finally, met hers. There was no fear. Just something older — weariness, maybe. Guilt. Or something worse: belief that he still had control.
"Perché pensavo che ti avrebbero distrutta le risposte."
(Because I thought the answers would destroy you.)
That was his second mistake.
Sienna stood, slow and deliberate.
She came around the desk and stopped just inches from him. Smaller in stature, yet now far more imposing.
"Ti sei mai chiesto se sono io la tempesta?" she asked, voice soft. (Did you ever wonder if I am the storm?)
Marco said nothing.
Sienna leaned in.
"Tu eri il suo consigliere. Il suo uomo di fiducia. Ma se hai taciuto… allora sei complice."
(You were his consigliere. His most trusted man. But if you stayed silent… then you're complicit.)
She didn't pull the trigger.
Not yet.
But she stepped back and turned to the file. Flipped a page. Circled a name.
"Hai tre giorni. Come gli altri." she said coldly. (You have three days. Like the others.)
"Per fare cosa?"
"Per dimostrarmi che non eri uno di loro."
(To prove to me you weren't one of them.)
And then she looked at him — not with hatred, not with pity.
But with judgment.
The kind of gaze a queen gives before ordering the execution.
Marco bowed his head once more, but as he left, he realized something terrifying:
Sienna didn't need to become Alessandro.
She was becoming something far more dangerous.
---