A vow in crimson

Chapter 1 The rain had a way of swallowing the city whole. It blurred the streetlamps into pale halos, washed the grit from the gutters, and carried the faint stink of gasoline down from the industrial docks. On nights like this, the city felt like it belonged to someone else—some shadow between the buildings, breathing with the traffic lights. Valentina Russo walked straight through it, unhurried, her heels finding the only dry patches between slick cobblestones. The black wool of her coat clung to her, the hem drinking in water, but she kept her chin high and her spine straighter than the lampposts that lined the street. She was late. Not because she'd hesitated—hesitation was for the weak—but because Enzo had called her out of a meeting with the casino manager and told her to *come now*. And Enzo never told her to come now unless something had gone very, very wrong. She turned down Via Rossi, the narrow artery that fed into a forgotten strip of back alleys and shuttered storefronts. The sound of rain against asphalt grew sharper here, bouncing off brick walls, amplifying the stillness that followed. Enzo stood at the mouth of an alley, a hulking shape in a soaked leather jacket. His face was half in shadow, but his eyes... she had never seen them like that. He didn't speak when she approachedl. Didn't have to. The smell reached her first—iron, wet, unmistakable. Then she saw the shape crumpled near the dumpster. Luca. Her breath hitched once, small enough that only she knew it happened. She walked forward, boots splashing through shallow puddles until she was close enough to see the dark bloom spreading across the white of his dress shirt. His black hair was slicked back with rain and blood, strands plastered to a face that still looked too alive for her to believe it wasn't. She crouched slowly, the way someone does when they're not sure they can stand again afterward. Her glove brushed his cheek. Cold already. The rosary chain around his neck was twisted, caught under his collar. Her brother had never been careful. He'd laughed too loud, bet too high, and played games with men who had no sense of humor. But he'd been *hers*. And now... Her jaw locked, her breath slow and even because if it wasn't, the rage would rip straight out of her throat. "Witness?" she asked without looking at Enzo. "One," Enzo said, his voice low and rough. "Says they saw a black Moretti sedan pull away right after the shot. Tinted windows. No plates." She rose, brushing raindrops from her coat like she was flicking away ash. "That's enough." Enzo stepped closer, his bulk blocking the alley mouth from prying eyes. "Val... listen to me. You know what this means if you go after him now. The streets aren't ready for—" "They weren't ready for this either." She gestured toward Luca without turning her head. "And here we are." Enzo hesitated, the rain dripping from the brim of his cap. "If it's Adrian Moretti, you'll never get a clean shot. He'll see you coming." "Then I'll aim faster." She brushed past him, the click of her heels swallowed by the rain. Her mind was already moving—routes, faces, debts she could call in. Behind her, Enzo muttered a curse, but he didn't follow. --- The city blurred as she drove, wipers smearing water into streaks across the windshield. Moretti territory was lit differently—warmer in some streets, colder in others, always with eyes in the shadows. She'd been here before, but never without an invitation and never without a gun in her bag. She wasn't here to find Adrian tonight—not yet. Tonight was for looking, for making her presence known. By the time she reached the strip of high-end restaurants on Corso Della Luna, the rain had slowed to a mist. Neon signs reflected off the wet pavement, red and green bleeding into one another. She parked two blocks down, far enough that no one would think she was here for business. The doorman at La Fiamma recognized her anyway—his stiff nod was a mixture of fear and respect. Inside, the air was warm, perfumed with saffron and expensive wine. She scanned the room once. No Adrian. Not yet. She ordered a glass of Barolo and took a seat near the back, facing the door. She wanted him to see her if he came in. She wanted the Moretti spies to whisper her name before dessert. It worked. Twenty minutes later, a man in a black suit entered. Not Adrian, but one of his lieutenants—tall, lean, with a scar cutting across his jaw. He stopped mid-step when he saw her. "Signorina Russo," he said, his tone polite but cautious. "Didn't expect to see you here." "Then you're not very good at your job," she replied, sipping her wine. His jaw tightened. "Is there... something the Don should know?" She smiled faintly, letting him stew in the silence. "Tell your Don I'll see him soon. And when I do, I'll have questions." The man gave her one last look before leaving, no doubt already rehearsing how to report this without making it sound like a threat. It didn't matter. It *was* a threat. When she finally returned home, the house was quiet. Too quiet. Her father's office door was closed, the muted sound of voices behind it. She didn't stop. In her own room, she peeled off the wet coat and let it fall onto the chair. Her fingers itched for the weight of her pistol, for the solid certainty of steel and gunpowder. She sat on the edge of the bed, her mind turning the same thought over and over: If Adrian Moretti killed Luca, she would end him. If he didn't, she would still make him bleed for breathing the same air as her brother's killer. Either way, this city was about to drown in more than rain.