Rain hammered the cobblestones outside Bella Fiore, Mia Moretti's Brooklyn flower shop, drowning the city in a symphony of chaos. The scent of roses clung to her skin sweet, cloying, suffocating. She tightened her grip on the shears, trimming thorns from a blood-red bridal bouquet. Another bride, she thought bitterly, another lie wrapped in petals. Her mother had taught her that flowers spoke truths even people couldn't: lilies for purity, peonies for shame, roses for love… or death.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock mocked her: 11:47 PM. Too late for customers. Too early for monsters.
The bell chimed.
Her brother Marco stumbled through the door, his Gucci shirt torn and streaked with something darker than rainwater. Mia, he rasped, clutching his ribs. His knuckles were split, raw flesh glistening under the shop's harsh fluorescents. Blood dripped onto the floor, blooming like poppies on the white tile.
She dropped the shears. Jesus! Marco, what did you do?
Five million! He collapsed against the counter, breathing ragged. I owe the Russos five million by sunrise.
The name hit her like a bullet. Russos. New York's deadliest mafia dynasty. The ones who'd turned her mother's disappearance into a neighborhood ghost story. The ones who'd left her father's corpse in the East River with a black rose stuffed between his teeth.
The door creaked again.
A shadow filled the threshold a man built like a war monument, his suit sharper than the knives in Mia's cooler. Enzo. The butcher of the Russo family. His face was a map of scars, one eye milky and blind.
Miss Moretti. He tossed a black rose onto the counter. Its stem coiled like a serpent, the thorn glinting under the light. Mr. Russo prefers roses. Ironic, no?
Mia's throat tightened. The Russos didn't send flowers. They sent funerals.
Your brother gambled with money that wasn't his, Enzo said, voice flat as a tombstone. Now he pays. Or you do.
I don't have five million, Mia snapped, though her pulse roared in her ears.
No. Enzo's gaze dropped to her neck. But you have something else.
The silver locket there her mother's last gift burned suddenly, as if warning her. She'd worn it every day since her mother vanished a decade ago, the chain digging into her skin like a secret. Inside was a faded photo of her mother standing in a Sicilian grove, her hands stained with soil and something darker.
Marco grabbed her wrist. Please, Mia. I'll die.
She yanked free. You should've thought of that before!
But his eyes, wild and desperate, were her father's eyes. The man who'd left them drowning in debt and despair. The man who'd whispered I'll fix this before vanishing into the river's murky embrace.
Fine! She snatched the black rose, its thorn pricking her thumb. A bead of blood welled, crimson against her skin. Let's meet the devil.
The limo smelled of cigars and regret. Mia counted the seconds 73, 74 until iron gates loomed ahead, snarling like fangs against the storm. The Russo estate was a fortress of stone and shadows, its windows dark except for a single flickering light on the third floor. Ravens perched on the wrought-iron fence, their beaks slick with rain.
Enzo shoved her into a study lined with leather-bound books and lies. The air reeked of bergamot and decay. Alessandro Russo sat behind a mahogany desk, his profile carved from marble and malice. He didn't look up from the ledger in his hands, his fingers ringed in gold and obsidian-tracing columns of numbers like a priest reciting scripture.
Sit!
I'll stand.
His ice-blue eyes flicked to hers. You'll kneel before this is done.
She gripped the locket. I'm not marrying you.
You are. He closed the ledger with a thud that echoed through the room. Or your brother dies screaming.
Behind him, a portrait of his ancestors hung crooked, its gilt frame peeling. Mia squinted the painting and hid a steel safe. Inside, something pulsed faintly: a jagged crystal suspended in black liquid, glowing like a trapped star. It throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
Why me?
He rose, closing the distance between them. His thumb brushed her pulse, cold as a gun barrel. "Because your blood is the key, Mia. And I intend to turn it in.
The locket seared her skin.
I'll marry you, she whispered, voice steady despite the storm inside her.
His smirk was a blade. Wise girl!
But as he turned, the gilded mirror on the wall fractured her reflection into a dozen shattered Mias. And in the shards, she saw Luca Russo, Alessandro's exiled brother, lurking in the hallway. His leather jacket hung open, revealing a scarred chest and a knife strapped to his ribs. His eyes locked on hers through the glass, dark and dangerous.
He pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh."
Then he sliced his palm, letting blood drip onto the floor. A promise. A threat.
"Till death, Mia," Alessandro said, mistaking her shudder for fear.
No, she thought. Till vengeance.
The clock struck midnight.
As Alessandro strode from the room, Mia's locket sprang open. Inside, her mother's photo had changed: the grove was now a crypt, and her mother's hands weren't stained with soil, they were covered in blood. A whisper slithered from the mirror, Luca's voice echoing through the glass:
Run, little witch. Before he turns your heart to ash.