Blood & Vows

Smoke Over Florence

Florence slept with one eye open.

The morning after the wedding, the city woke not to church bells, but to sirens. Word had spread—whispers in alleyways, murmurs in clubs and council rooms. The new Mrs. De Rossi had executed a man in the cathedral. Not just any man—Giovanni Scuro, cousin to the head of the Scuro family, an old rival of the De Rossis.

The message was clear: Ivy wasn’t a pawn.

She was a queen.

And queens didn’t flinch.

From the high windows of the De Rossi palazzo, Ivy watched the smoke rise from a warehouse across the Arno River—one of the Scuro holdings. Luca’s men had struck just before dawn. No survivors. A retaliation masked as preemption.

“What if they strike back?” Ivy asked.

Luca, standing beside her, slid a gold ring onto her middle finger. Not another blood ring—this one bore the De Rossi crest in obsidian and onyx.

“They will,” he said. “That’s the point.”

The war had begun, and she had fired the first bullet.

But Ivy wasn’t entirely at peace. The man she had executed hadn’t haunted her dreams—what haunted her was how quickly she had silenced her conscience. There had been no nightmares, no tremble in her hands when she buttered toast that morning. She felt... hollow. Efficient.

She didn't know whether to be proud or scared.

Later that day, Luca brought her into the war room. It wasn’t just a name. A massive table filled the space, covered in maps, red pins, blue tags, and photographs of enemies, allies, and corrupt officials. Every corner of the city was carved into territories. It looked like a chessboard drenched in gasoline.

“I want you here,” Luca said, placing his hands flat on the table. “This war won’t be fought with just guns. We need leverage. Secrets. You have a gift for reading people. Use it.”

Ivy approached slowly, eyes scanning the board. “You trust me that much?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

“You married me to stop a war,” she said.

He tilted his head. “No. I married you to win it.”

She felt the tension in those words, thick and potent. It wasn’t flattery. It was strategy.

She studied a cluster of red pins near the edge of the map. “What’s this?”

“The Scuro safehouses. Mostly weapons. One of them moves cash through a brothel front. I want it burned.”

“I’ll do it.”

Luca blinked. “You’ll do it?”

“Give me two men and an SUV,” Ivy said. “I’ll make it look like a robbery. Send a message without starting a massacre.”

He looked at her, quiet for a beat, then nodded. “You’re serious.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ve never been more awake.”

That night, Ivy suited up—black jeans, combat boots, a hoodie under a tailored coat. Two men accompanied her: Matteo, quick on the trigger, and Emilio, the silent one who followed orders to the word.

The brothel was tucked between two butcher shops, its windows tinted and its door gold-plated. Ivy knocked once, and when a tired-eyed woman opened the door, Ivy slipped her a roll of euros.

“Get the girls out,” she whispered. “Now. Quietly.”

The woman hesitated, then nodded.

Ten minutes later, the brothel was cleared. Ivy entered through the back and found the cash safe tucked behind a curtain. Matteo emptied it, setting bundles of cash ablaze in a trash bin. The smoke rose quickly.

Emilio poured gasoline on the carpet.

When they walked out, fire licked the windows. No bodies. No blood. Just money turned to smoke and a street that would carry her message all the way to the Scuros.

Back at the palazzo, Luca waited at the top of the stairs. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable.

“You burned it?” he asked.

“Every euro,” she said.

“And the girls?”

“Gone before the match was lit.”

His eyes softened. “You’re better at this than I expected.”

“I’m not better,” Ivy said, tugging off her gloves. “I’m just done pretending I’m someone else.”

Luca stepped closer. “That’s dangerous.”

“So am I.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles—right over the blood ring.

Outside, Florence burned.

Inside, a new queen had taken her throne.