La Maschera della Rosa

Palermo, 1983. The sun had barely risen when blood stained the cobblestones of Vucciria. Dante Moretti stood beneath the crumbling archway of a centuries-old bakery, a cigarette pinched between two fingers, its tip glowing against the shadows that clung to the alley. Smoke curled toward the sky like a quiet offering to gods he no longer feared. His suits were always pressed, tailored sharp as switchblades, and his face—handsome in a cruel sort of way—betrayed little beyond calculation. They called him Il Lupo—the wolf. Not because he hunted. Because he never missed. “You made a promise,” the man whimpered on his knees, palms bloodied from crawling. “I paid half. I—I just need time.” Dante exhaled, watching the smoke drift like ghosts across the morning light. Behind him, two of his men waited, their silence louder than the plea. Palermo’s streets were always busy with whispers, but when Dante passed through, even the gossip dared not speak his name too loudly. “I gave you thirty days,” Dante murmured, crouching. “Time is like wine, Signor Rosetti. Too much of it, and things turn sour.” The gun never left its holster. Instead, Dante reached into his coat and pulled out a small, gleaming knife. It wasn’t meant to kill. Just to remember. Rosetti's scream echoed down the narrow street. A warning, not just to debtors—but to those who forgot what it cost to break a bargain with the Moretti family. By eight o’clock, Dante was drinking espresso under the striped awning of Café del Corso, as if blood hadn’t dried beneath his nails. He opened the face of his antique pocket watch and stared at the photo inside—a faded image of a young woman, smiling beneath bougainvillaea. No one knew her name. Some claimed she was his sister, others a ghost from the war. Whatever the truth, Dante never explained. He didn’t have to. A young boy approached timidly and dropped an envelope on the table. The message was sealed with crimson wax—only one person still used that seal: Don Carlo Vitale, head of the Sicilian Commission. Trouble, then. Or opportunity. He didn’t open it yet. Instead, he looked across the street where the Teatro Massimo’s posters advertised a masquerade gala hosted by a shipping magnate. Dante smirked. He would attend. Not because he cared about operas or aristocrats. Because every mask had something to hide. And sometimes, the prettiest lies wore perfume.