The Mafia Nun: Blood And Vows

The Bianchi mansion had always been a fortress of silence at night. Nestled in the hills above Lake Como, its limestone facade glowed like a ghost under the moon, its windows shuttered tight against the world. Inside, the air smelled of lemon polish and old money—crystal chandeliers dripping from ceilings, Persian rugs swallowing footsteps, portraits of dead men in suits glaring from the walls. But in the west wing, where the family slept, the silence was softer. Here, the floors were warmed by understated elegance—cream-colored drapes, a mahogany crib preserved as a relic from Selene’s infancy, and shelves lined with leather-bound books her father never read. Selene Bianchi, age six, slept like the dead. Her room was a cocoon of lace and velvet, a canopy bed drowning in pillows. A stuffed rabbit named Alfredo, missing one eye, lay crooked in her arms. Outside her door, the hallway was a gallery of her mother’s obsessions—Vanessa’s Klimt reproductions, her collection of Venetian masks, the faint hum of a grandfather clock counting down to nothing. The fire began in the cellar. It slithered up the dumbwaiter shaft, licking at dry wood and silk wallpaper, swallowing the scent of her father’s cigars and her mother’s jasmine perfume. By the time it reached the second floor, it was a roar. Selene didn’t stir—not when smoke seeped under her door, not when the heat warped the brass doorknob. But her father did. Alexander Bianchi woke to the smell of burning cedar, his hand already reaching for the Beretta under his pillow. He shook Vanessa awake, his voice a blade. “Get up. Now.” Vanessa’s scream died in her throat as she saw the orange light pulsing beneath their bedroom door. They didn’t speak. They ran. Selene’s door exploded inward, splinters raining over her bed. Alexander’s silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by hell. “Papa…?” Selene rubbed her eyes, Alfredo slipping from her grip. Vanessa lunged for her, yanking the quilt away. “No time, piccola—UP!” She dragged Selene barefoot onto the scorching floorboards. The child’s nightgown caught on a bedpost, ripping as Alexander hauled her into the hall. The mansion was alive with screams—not human, but the groan of collapsing beams, the shatter of glass. Smoke coiled along the ceiling like a serpent. Alexander shoved them toward the east staircase, his suit pajamas already signed. “Servants’ stairs—GO!” Vanessa froze. The grand staircase was a waterfall of fire, molten crystal from the chandelier pooling on the marble below. “Alexander, it’s blocked—” “MOVE!” He ripped a tapestry from the wall, wrapping it around his forearm as he kicked open the service door. The narrow stairs spiraled downward into blackness. Selene choked as smoke filled her lungs, her mother’s hand crushing hers. Three floors. The wood beneath them groaned. Alexander stayed behind, slamming doors shut to buy seconds. When they reached the ground floor, Vanessa screamed his name. *“ALEXANDER!” He was still upstairs. Flames crowned his hair as he appeared at the railing. “Go to the kitchen—the delivery gate!” A beam crashed behind him, sparks catching the rug. “I’LL FIND YOU!” Vanessa sobbed, torn, but Selene’s coughing fit decided it. She scooped the girl into her arms, running past the melting Sub-Zero fridge, the family portraits blistering on the walls. The delivery entrance was a steel door near the pantry, used for groceries brought in discreetly—no fingerprints, no witnesses. Mafia logistics. It was locked. “No—NO!” Vanessa slammed her palm against the keypad. 0805—Selene’s birthday. Error. The system was dead. Selene tugged her mother’s sleeve. “Mamma, the window—” The butler’s pantry had a high, narrow window overlooking the herb garden. Vanessa dragged a steel prep table beneath it, her silk robe catching fire as she climbed. The window latch burned her palm—she heard her own skin sizzle before she felt it. “MAMMA!” Selene wailed as Vanessa recoiled, clutching her blackened hand. “It’s… it’s okay.” Vanessa bit her lip until it bled, using her elbow to smash the glass. The opening was barely twelve inches tall. “You have to crawl through, stellina. Like a game.” Selene shook, ash sticking to her tears. “Not without you!” Vanessa didn’t argue. She tore the robe from her body, leaving only a slip, and wrapped the fabric around the window’s jagged edge. Flames licked the ceiling tiles above them. “Now. Knees on my shoulders.” The child trembled but obeyed, her weight light as a sparrow. Vanessa boosted her up, the robe shielding Selene’s hands as she clawed through. “Jump to the magnolia!” Vanessa commanded. “Don’t look down!” Selene hesitated, her nightgown snagging on glass. “Mamma, your hand—” “JUMP!” The girl fell through smoke and blossoms, branches whipping her cheeks. She hit the ground shoulder-first, the impact knocking her breath away. Above, the window vomited black smoke. “MAMMA! PAPA!” Inside, Vanessa was already running back. Alexander Bianchi was stucked on the second-floor landing. He’d been heading for the safe room—a steel vault behind his study where he kept the family’s real heirlooms. Ledgers. Names. A pistol with a mother-of-pearl grip, Vanessa’s 30th birthday gift. But the flames herded him like wolves, and when the chandelier fell, it pinned his leg. Vanessa found him trying to saw through his own calf with a pocketknife. “Stop!” She fell to her knees, hands fluttering over the wreckage. The crystal teardrops had fused to his flesh. Alexander grabbed her face. “You… came back?” He laughed, blood bubbling at his lips. “Stupid woman.” She pressed her forehead to his. “I love you.” “I know.” He shoved the knife into her hand. “Finish it. They can’t find me.” Vanessa kissed him. Then she slashed his throat. The explosion came as she cradled his body—gas lines, maybe, or the ammunition stash in the safe room. It blew the roof off, raining stone and starlight. Selene woke to sirens. The magnolia tree was bald, its branches skeletal against the dawn. Her left arm hung limp, maybe broken. When she tried to scream, only a whimper came out. The first firefighter to reach her vomited at the smell. Not just smoke—pork. The Bianchi mansion reeked of cooked meat. But Selene didn’t hear his retching. She was watching the crows circle what remained of her father’s study. One landed on the windowsill, pecking at something glinting in the rubble. A pistol grip, pearlescent in the ash.