Death Comes Dressed In White
A private runway just outside New York City shimmered under the silver wash of early evening. The cold wind whispered across the tarmac, brushing against the convoy of sleek, black SUVs lined in perfect formation.
Around them stood men in blood-red suits, their expressions unreadable behind tinted sunglasses. Each one wore a black rose pin on their chest—a symbol that needed no introduction.
La Rosa Nera had arrived.
The roar of jet engines echoed across the airfield as a matte-black private jet, descended like a predator from the clouds. Its wheels kissed the asphalt with a hiss of smoke before slowing to a smooth stop.
The red-suited men straightened in unison.
The door of the jet opened, and the first figure stepped out.
Viviana Grandé.
She moved with the poise of a queen and the silence of a shadow—high heels clicking against the metal steps, long black coat fluttering behind her. Her lipstick was the same shade as her shirt—blood red. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the surroundings with swift, surgical precision.
Next came Matteo Moretti.
Handsome, confident, and exuding an effortless sort of arrogance that couldn’t be faked. His dark designer suit clung to his lean frame like a second skin. A Rolex peeked from under his sleeve. He adjusted his cuffs as he descended the steps, flashing a smile that could charm snakes. His hair was perfectly styled, as always, and his sharp jaw flexed as he gave a single nod to the men waiting.
And then the air shifted.
Heavy. Reverent. Dangerous.
Valentino Moretti emerged. The Don of La Rosa Nera.
A white suit draped across his broad shoulders, pristine and untouchable. A single red rose was pinned to his lapel, the only color daring enough to adorn him. An eye patch covered his left eye—rumors said he lost it in the last war against the Grecos. A silver ring adorned his right hand, shaped like a coiled serpent strangled by a rose stem. His salt-and-pepper hair gave him a regal sort of menace, like a lion who had killed for his crown.
He stepped onto the tarmac, and the men bowed their heads in sync.
Viviana led him to the SUV at the center. One of the men opened the door with a respectful nod. Valentino entered without a word, followed by Matteo and Viviana.
The convoy rolled out moments later, black tires spinning across asphalt like hounds released for the hunt.
Later that evening, the three of them sat around a long marble dining table in the penthouse of one of Valentino’s New York properties—a high-rise that overlooked Manhattan like a god surveying his chessboard.
The room was filled with quiet elegance—crystal glasses, gold-trimmed cutlery, and flickering candlelight—but the atmosphere was cold.
Valentino sipped red wine from a crystal glass. Matteo silently cut into a rare filet. Viviana dabbed at her lips with a napkin.
No one spoke until Valentino’s phone vibrated against the polished table.
He picked it up, checking the name on the screen.
Matteo raised a brow. “Who is it, Padré?”
“Charles.” Valentino replied.
He answered and placed the phone on speaker. “Evening, Charles.”
“Good evening, sir,” came the crisp voice on the other end.
“I trust your journey to America was smooth,” Charles added.
Valentino leaned back, wine swirling lazily in his glass. “Smooth enough. Now that I’m here, I want to begin. We’ve waited long enough. It’s time to start making our moves—everything we discussed, all of it.”
“Yes, yes,” Charles replied. “We’ll begin executing the plan soon. The pieces are falling into place.”
“And the informant?” Valentino asked, his voice sharper now. “The one you placed inside enemy territory?”
“The informant is still at work. She’s playing the long game to avoid suspicion. No sudden moves.”
Valentino narrowed his eyes slightly. “Do we have anything yet? Anything we can use?”
“Not at the moment,” Charles said. “But she’s closing in. There’s something she’s waiting on—when she gets it, you’ll have it too.”
There was a pause.
“And this informant…” Valentino said. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Angela, sir. Angela Summers. Undercover as Diamond Fontaine.”
Charles sent the file.
Valentino’s phone pinged. He tapped the screen, and a photo opened.
Red hair.
Hazel eyes.
Beautiful face. An even more beautiful body.
“She’s already got the youngest Greco wrapped around her finger,” Charles added. “The girl’s good. One of the best I’ve ever trained.”
A slow, wicked smirk spread across Valentino’s face as he stared at the image.
“Well done,” he murmured. “Well fucking done.”
The call wound down after a few more formalities. Charles promised an update soon. Valentino ended the call and handed the phone across the table to Matteo, who studied the image silently.
Matteo chuckled to himself and passed it to Viviana.
Viviana glanced at the screen, then set the phone aside and resumed eating. “She’s pretty.”
Valentino let out a low, menacing chuckle that filled the silent room like smoke.
“Those Grecos,” he said, swirling his wine again. “They’re going to regret ever crossing me again once I’m done with them.”
The candlelight flickered across his eye patch, casting shadows like ghosts from the past.
And outside, the city of New York slept soundly, unaware that a new storm had just landed on its soil.