The city reeked of smoke and iron.
Isabella Wilson walked through the courtyard of her estate, every step steady, deliberate. The marble beneath her heels was stained dark, the kind of stains that servants couldn't scrub away in a single night. Thirty coffins stood in a line, draped in black cloth. Thirty men who had pledged themselves to the Wilsons, now reduced to silence.
Her men stood scattered, battered, mourning in their own ways. Some clutched rosaries. Others clenched fists. All of them looked at her. Waiting. Testing.
Marcus limped at her side, his suit torn, his knuckles raw. Sebastian, quiet as a shadow, followed close.
For a long moment Isabella said nothing. She moved to the first coffin and placed her palm on the cold wood. Her lashes lowered. Her lips moved, but the words were for the dead alone.
You carried the weight that should've been mine. I'll carry it now.
When she turned back, her expression was carved from steel.
"No more," she said, her voice slicing through the heavy air. "Not like this. This blood isn't strength it's waste. I won't feed pride with lives that could build empires."
The silence cracked when one of the soldiers blurted, trembling, "But La Rosa… how much more can we take? They burn our docks, they kill our brothers, and we"
"Watch your tongue," another hissed, but the damage was done. The question lingered.
Don Renaldi, one of the elders, seized his moment. He stepped forward, his lined face twisted into disdain. "She admits it. The girl has reached her limit. The Black Rose wilts at last."
Murmurs spread like wildfire. Some nodded. Others stiffened. Marcus's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with the promise of violence.
Isabella didn't flinch. Slowly, she walked toward Renaldi. Her heels clicked softly, and every sound made the old man stiffen. When she stood before him, she leaned close, her words silk draped over steel.
"You misunderstand me, Don Renaldi. I don't back down because I'm weak. I back down because I'm strong enough to know when pride costs more than it gives." Her lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile. "And if you think restraint is weakness… stand in my way. I'll cut you down before the Raccis ever touch you."
The room froze.
Renaldi swallowed, his bravado crumbling. He stepped back.
Marcus barked a laugh, sharp and cruel. "You see? She wears the name of La Rosa Negra for a reason. Remember that before you forget yourselves."
The tension snapped, and the courtyard bowed to silence again. Isabella turned back to her men. "Prepare yourselves. There will be talks. There will be terms. But if the Raccis think the Wilsons kneel, they'll find thorns waiting."
Gathering of Wolves
The following night, Naples bore witness to something the underworld would never forget: the Gathering of Wolves.
A hall glittered under chandeliers, tables set with crystal and silver. But no one came to dine. The air was heavy with gunpowder, with suspicion. Every family was represented elders from Sicily, bosses from Rome, lieutenants from Milan. Guns tucked under jackets, knives sheathed under dresses.
The Raccis arrived first. Matteo led with that smug smile, his youth sharpened into arrogance, every step screaming that he thought himself untouchable. Vittorio followed behind, calm and regal, the seasoned lion watching the arena.
Then came the outsiders, Rome and Milan. Then, the D'Amatos.
Two men drew every gaze.
Damian D'Amato, sharp-jawed, sharp-tongued, eyes full of disdain. He entered like he owned the place, his arrogance coating the room.
But beside him walked Alistair D'Amato.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His suit was black, his tie loose, his presence coiled like a blade waiting to strike. His eyes cold, unblinking scanned the room until they landed on her.
Isabella Wilson. La Rosa Negra.
For one heartbeat, the noise of the hall fell away. His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable. She didn't look away. Instead, she lifted her glass, a silent acknowledgment.
Alistair's lips curved—barely. Not a smile. Not mockery. Just… interest.
And the wolves in the room felt the storm gather.
The Truce
When the elders called the meeting to order, Vittorio rose first. His deep voice rolled over the hall.
"The city bleeds. We all bleed. This war has gone far enough. The Racci family is prepared to discuss terms of peace."
A low murmur rippled. Matteo smirked, lounging in his seat, his eyes fixed on Isabella with taunting delight.
When it was her turn, Isabella stood. Black silk draped her frame, her hair pinned back with a single black rose. Elegant. Deadly.
"Peace," she repeated softly, letting the word echo. "That's what you want? Peace?"
Her voice sharpened, slicing through the murmurs.
"You speak of peace now, when the streets are red with bodies. When children wake to gunfire. When men who trusted us lie in the ground."
A ripple of discomfort spread. Even some Raccis looked away.
"I won't let my men die for vanity. I won't let this city burn because two families can't tame their pride. So yes I will sit at this table. I will sign your papers. I will give the streets their silence back."
She leaned forward, her eyes dark, her tone velvet over blades.
"But don't mistake me. This truce isn't surrender. It's restraint. And the first hand that breaks it will find mine waiting with a rose, black as the grave."
Silence swallowed the hall.
Vittorio studied her with new calculation. Matteo's smirk faltered, just slightly. Damian snorted in derision, but even he looked unsettled.
And Alistair? His gaze never left her. Unblinking. Measuring.
A Storm in the Making
The truce was sealed with ink and signatures. The room exhaled, but no one believed it. The smiles were painted. The handshakes empty.
As the meeting broke, Isabella turned to leave, Sebastian at her back. But before she could reach the door, a voice stopped her.
Low. Smooth. Dangerous.
"You speak of restraint, La Rosa…"
She turned.
Alistair D'Amato stood there, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on her.
"…but restraint is just another kind of weapon. I wonder who you plan to use it on."
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Isabella's lips curved into a cold smile. "On whoever deserves it."
For the first time, Alistair's eyes flickered amusement, or challenge, she couldn't tell.
And then he walked away, leaving her with the echo of his words.
The wolves had gathered. The blood had dried. But everyone in that room knew this truce wasn't peace.
It was the sharp inhale before the next war.