A vow in crimson

Funeral sparks

Chapter 2

The church was older than most of the people in it.

Stone walls, worn smooth from centuries of wind and rain, rose high into shadows where the light from the chandeliers could not reach. The scent of incense clung to everything — to the pews, the heavy red curtains, even to the black clothes worn by those gathered.

Valentina Russo stood at the head of her brother’s casket, her hands clasped over the rosary so tightly the beads left crescent-shaped marks in her palms. The lace veil over her hair softened nothing; her face was carved in ice.

Luca lay in the coffin below, wearing the same suit he’d worn to her birthday two months ago. His skin was too pale, his lips pressed shut in a line that made him look like he was biting back a joke. She hated that she almost expected him to sit up and smirk at the whole performance.

The pews were full. Men in black suits with sharp eyes, women in veils whispering behind gloved hands. The air was thick with the weight of respect and curiosity — respect for the dead, curiosity for how the living would respond.

They were waiting for her father to move. Waiting for the Russo Don to send the signal that blood would answer blood.

The priest spoke in Latin, his voice a soft drone beneath the restless shuffling of feet and the low hum of whispered conversations.

The heavy oak doors at the back creaked open.

Valentina didn’t have to turn. The change in the air told her before she saw him.

Adrian Moretti.

The man stepped into the aisle like he owned the ground he walked on, like the church itself had bent to let him in. His suit was black, perfectly tailored. His dark hair was slicked back, but not so much that it hid the slight curl at the ends. His face was unreadable — calm, but with a sharpness in his eyes that could cut through glass.

The murmurs rose. A Moretti at a Russo funeral. It was either a peace offering or an act of war.

Valentina didn’t move until he was three steps from the casket. Then she looked up, their eyes locking for the first time in two years.

There was no guilt in his gaze. No apology. Just that steady, infuriating calm.

“Valentina,” he said, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

“You came to see what your bullet did?” she asked, her tone quiet, even, but cold enough to freeze the air between them.

One corner of his mouth twitched, but not in amusement. “If I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t have missed.”

She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, but inside something twisted. He was either lying, or worse — telling the truth.

Lightning flashed through the stained-glass windows, spilling red light across his cheekbones.

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. Her father. His presence was a silent warning: *Not here. Not now.*

She stepped closer to Adrian until the veil’s lace brushed his suit. Her voice was a whisper edged in steel. “Stay away from me, Moretti. Or I’ll bury you too.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes — not fear, but interest. Challenge.

Then he stepped back, adjusted his cuff, and walked down the aisle the way he’d come, leaving ripples of whispers in his wake.

---

After the final prayer, the pallbearers lifted Luca’s coffin. Valentina followed as they carried it toward the waiting hearse. Outside, the rain had turned into a slow, steady drizzle.

Enzo was waiting by the curb. He opened the door of the black car that would take her to the cemetery.

“You saw him,” Enzo said once they were inside.

“I saw him,” she replied.

“And?”

Her gaze stayed fixed out the rain-speckled window. “He’s either innocent or very, very good at lying.”

“You think he came to poke the bear?”

“I think,” she said, “he came to see how hard the bear would bite.”

---

The burial was quiet. Her father spoke briefly, his words clipped but heavy. Valentina didn’t speak at all. When the last shovelful of earth was dropped onto Luca’s coffin, she stayed until everyone else had left.

It was nearly dark when she finally returned home. The mansion was silent except for the distant murmur of her father’s voice in his office. She passed the door without knocking.

In her own room, she stripped off the black dress, the veil, the gloves. They fell to the floor in a heap.

She stood in front of the mirror in just her slip, staring at her reflection. The woman looking back at her had her mother’s sharp cheekbones and her father’s eyes — hard, assessing, impossible to read.

She didn’t feel grief the way most people did. Grief was heavy, and heavy things slowed you down. She felt anger. Sharp, hot, clean.

And anger could move fast.

---

By midnight, she was in the study with a bottle of Chianti and a notebook. The list she began to write was simple:

* People who owed her favors.

* People who owed her father favors.

* Moretti soldiers with loose lips.

* Moretti soldiers with expensive habits.

She would not wait for her father to declare war. She would build her own web, and when Adrian Moretti stepped into it, she would pull it tight.

She poured another glass of wine and let her mind drift back to his face in the church — the stillness of him, the way he hadn’t looked away.

If he was guilty, he was dangerous.

If he was innocent…

She took another sip, ignoring the way the thought refused to finish itself.

---