The file was old, worn, and smelled like cigarettes, mildew, and cold sweat. Rosa flipped it open slowly, like peeling back the layers of a wound that had never healed right. She had waited Five damn years to get her hands on it—longer, if she was honest. Since the day they tried to bury her alive.
Inside were photos, black-and-white, grainy. Most of the men had sharp suits and sharper eyes. Lean faces. Cold smiles. The kind of men who ruled quietly, with money, fear, and silence. Most people would just see a bunch of forgotten gangsters and retired politicians. But Rosa saw it all.
Don Riccardo Mancini. Lorenzo's father. The devil in a priest's coat. Her breath stilled at his face. The first time she met Riccardo, she was twenty-two, nervous, and trying to prove herself in Lorenzo's company. He'd shaken her hand, smiled like a grandfather, and called her la rosa rossa—the red rose.
The nickname was sweet until she understood why he used it. Roses had thorns. And men like Riccardo liked to clip those off. The deeper she dug, the uglier it got. Pages of handwritten notes. Cryptic codes that masked offshore accounts. Signatures. Letters. And then—the voice recording.
Scratchy. Barely audible. But him.
"Tell Lorenzo to keep quiet and smile. If the girl makes noise, I'll handle it."
Her chest tightened. The girl. That had been her. Not even worth a name. She ran her hand through her hair and cursed under her breath. This wasn't revenge anymore—it was personal. This wasn't about money. Not power. This was about justice. Real justice.
The kind that didn't come from a courtroom. The kind that came from letting monsters fall face-first into their own filth. She stood, grabbed her coat, and walked into the night.
Lorenzo hadn't slept. His tie was crooked. His knuckles red from punching the desk. He'd spent the entire night tracking the leak and still couldn't pin it. Whoever this Belladonna woman was, she wasn't sloppy.
But what truly unsettled him was her eyes. He'd stared at her picture for hours, trying to find what it was that made his spine crawl. The hair wasn't the same. The face, sharper. The name, new. But the eyes? They looked like ghosts.
And not just any ghost.
"Boss," his assistant's voice cut in, "you need to see this." He turned to the monitor.
> VATICAN MONEY TRAIL TIED TO MANCINI FAMILY
> Old Mafia money may still be circulating under charitable fronts. Sources point to Don Riccardo's hidden accounts and suggest modern ties remain active.
Lorenzo's face went white. "No," he said quietly. The last time someone touched Riccardo's secrets, they vanished.
He picked up his phone. "Get me Artiglio," he said. The Claw. If Belladonna was who he feared she was, she wouldn't walk away this time.
The burner phone buzzed at 2:00 a.m. Rosa didn't even look. Just answered.
"What's the damage?"
"Massive," Killian replied. "Vatican's in panic mode. Investors dumping Mancini Holdings. The press is circling like dogs."
Rosa looked out the window. The city lights reflected in her wine glass.
"Good."
"You've made a lot of noise, Rosa. He's going to come for you."
"I'm counting on it."
There was a pause. "You're sure you're ready for that?"
Rosa smirked. "Let him send his best. Let him dig up every shadow. I've died once already. I'm not afraid of burning anymore."
Lorenzo met Artiglio in a room that smelled like sweat, steel, and regret.
"I want you to find her. Now," Lorenzo ordered.
The man didn't speak. Just nodded, slow.
"I want her scared. Not dead. Not yet."
Artiglio raised a brow. Lorenzo's voice dropped.
"I want her to feel like she's drowning. And when she gasps for air, I want her to know I'm the one standing on her chest."
Rosa felt it before she saw it. Something off in the air. A shift. A silence too perfect.
She reached for the drawer beside her bed and pulled out the Glock. By the time she turned, the man was already inside.
Black hoodie. Gloves. Knife.
He was fast. But not faster than trauma-honed instinct. She ducked, rolled, and swept his legs out from under him.
He hit the floor with a grunt. She straddled him, gun to his throat.
"Wrong address," she whispered.
He didn't speak. She fired into the wall beside his ...head. The plaster cracked. He flinched.
"Who sent you?"
Silence. She hit him across the jaw with the butt of the gun.
"Lorenzo," he choked. "I don't know more."
She leaned close. "Tell your boss the red rose is blooming again. And this time, I'm the one holding the knife.
Rosa called Killian . "Time for a leak," she said. "Get me access to Lorenzo's private estate. I want blueprints, security logs, staff names. I'm going in."
"You're not serious," Killian replied.
"I am," Rosa said, her voice firm.
"You know what they call that place, right?" Killian asked, a hint of warning in his tone.
Rosa smiled, her lips curved with a mix of madness and mission. "Yeah. The Garden of Ghosts."
Killian sighed. "I'll get the plans. But Rosa, be careful. That place is a fortress."
"I'm counting on it," Rosa replied, her eyes gleaming with determination.
As she waited for the plans to arrive, Rosa's mind wandered back to the Mancini estate. She had heard stories about the Garden of Ghosts, the nickname given to the estate's labyrinthine gardens and hedges. It was said that anyone who ventured in never came out the same.
The plans arrived, and Rosa studied them intently. She knew the guards' schedules, the camera angles, and the hidden passages. She memorized every detail, her mind racing with possibilities.
With the plans in hand, Rosa felt a sense of confidence wash over her. She was ready to take on the Mancini estate, to face whatever lay within its walls. The Garden of Ghosts was waiting, and Rosa was ready to enter.