The Rival’s Rose
1056 Words
The Rival’s Rose
The package arrived at her office in the morning.
No return address. No signature. Just a matte black box with a blood-red wax seal.
She opened it slowly, heart already pounding.
Inside:
A single red rose, thorns still on the stem.
A .32 calibre bullet, polished.
And carved into its casing: “E. CRUZ.”
There was no note.
But she knew.
Dario.
And this wasn’t a threat.
It was a message.
> You’re not just close to Vincent anymore.
You’re part of the war.
---
She Took It to Vincent
He was in the study, shirtless, bruised from some fight he wouldn’t talk about.
She dropped the box on the desk.
He looked at it.
Didn’t open it.
“I know who it’s from,” he said.
“He’s playing with you.”
“He said something to me.” Her voice was low. “Told me to ask about Palermo. 2003. Sofia Mariani.”
Vincent’s entire body stilled.
The silence that followed didn’t feel like a pause.
It felt like a shutdown.
Elena stepped closer. “Who was she?”
“No one,” Vincent said coldly. “Not to you.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He looked up, and for the first time…
He wasn’t her lover.
He was the Don.
“Palermo doesn’t exist anymore. And if you’re smart, you’ll forget it ever did.”
---
But She Wasn’t Smart Enough to Let Go
That night, she took the bullet and held it in her palm, watching the way the dim light played off the letters of her name.
It wasn’t just a warning.
It was an invitation.
To Dario’s truth.
To Vincent’s secrets.
To a choice that would burn someone either way.
---
Somewhere Else…
Dario sat in his office, watching footage of Elena on a silent screen.
She was holding the bullet.
He turned to his consigliere.
“She’s thinking,” he said.
“And when she decides?”
He smiled.
“Either she brings me Vincent’s head...
Or she brings me her heart.”
Vincent – Palermo, 2003
She Was the First to Call Him "Lupo."
Sofia Mariani.
She was supposed to be a translator.
That was the lie. The truth? She was DEA—deep undercover. Fluent in Sicilian, fluent in charm.
Vincent found her laughing in a bar, working her way toward the man he was sent to kill.
But she saw him instead.
And for the first time in his life, Vincent Moretti hesitated.
---
She Made Him Weak.
They met in secret—rooms with thin walls and thick lies.
She didn’t know who he was.
He didn’t care who she worked for.
For a few months, they pretended.
She called him “Lupo” because he always moved like a wolf—quiet, watchful, dangerous if touched.
He called her “Fiore.” Flower.
Because he was always waiting for the day she’d be crushed.
That day came too soon.
---
He Found Her Wire.
She was sleeping.
His hand slid under the mattress to find a second phone—one she never told him about.
The wire was buried in her purse, tucked inside a compact mirror.
He didn’t confront her.
He didn’t rage.
He watched her wake up. Kiss him. Say his name.
And he kissed her back—longer than usual.
That night, he sent her away. Told her to run. She thought it was love.
It was mercy.
---
What Happened Next?
She didn’t leave.
She came back the next day.
Not for him—for the file she believed would take the Moretti family down.
But someone else followed her.
A soldier. Young. Loyal. Scared.
He shot her in the alley behind a bakery.
Three times. In the back.
She never even turned around.
Vincent killed that soldier the same night.
Buried both of them without a word to anyone.
And from then on?
No more Fiore.
Only the Wolf.
Chapter 7 – Palermo
The records weren’t easy to find.
Officially, there was no Sofia Mariani.
But Elena was a lawyer.
She knew where the shadows kept secrets warm.
An old DEA case file. Redacted. Buried. Forgotten.
But not completely.
She found a name at the bottom:
Daniel Vega – former field agent. Retired. Last known address: Naples.
She booked the flight without telling Vincent.
Without telling anyone.
Some truths you don’t ask permission to find.
---
The Man Who Lived
Daniel Vega lived in a small, crumbling flat above a wine bar.
She expected a bitter man.
Instead, he was quiet. Gentle.
Old pain made soft by time.
When she said Sofia’s name, he froze.
Then: “You’re with him, aren’t you? Moretti.”
She didn’t deny it.
He poured them both a drink.
“Then let me tell you how he loved her.”
---
What Daniel Said
> “She was the best of us. Brilliant. Brave.
And too f*****g kind to survive it.
She believed she could bring down the Moretti family without spilling a drop of blood. She thought Vincent could be reasoned with. That he’d change for her.
And for a moment… I think he tried.
But wolves don’t become men just because they want to be held.”
Elena swallowed. “Did he kill her?”
Daniel looked at her, and something in his eyes shifted.
> “No. He let her live. That’s the cruel part. He gave her one night—one chance to run. But she came back.
And someone else pulled the trigger.
Vincent avenged her, yes.
But what kind of justice is that?
She died believing he loved her.
And I think he did.
But not the way you’re hoping for.
You’re not the first woman to mistake control for devotion.”
---
Elena Didn’t Cry.
Not until she was alone.
In the hotel room.
Holding the bullet with her name carved into it.
Vincent didn’t kill Sofia.
But he buried her with silence.
And if Elena ever fell in the same direction…
Would anyone even know?
---
Somewhere in Manhattan…
Vincent sat at his piano, fingers pressing ghost notes.
He hadn’t heard from Elena in two days.
He told himself not to worry.
But wolves, real wolves, know when the hunt has turned.
And something inside him whispered:
> She knows.
- Writer
