Rain danced on the rooftop like war drums, a relentless percussion against the glass as if Milan itself was bracing for the chaos to come. The sky had split open hours ago, painting the city in a sheet of cold silver, and now everything below shimmered like an omen.
Rose DeLuca sat curled in the shadows of Killian Rizzo's private lounge, draped in black velvet and rage. The room smelled of old books, whiskey, and quiet power. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the cityscape, but her eyes were fixed on the man in front of her.
Killian sat in silence, spinning a small gold coin between his fingers. He hadn't said a word since she arrived, and neither had she. Just sat there, both of them existing in the kind of silence that carried too much weight. A silence that knew things. Carried blood and betrayal like perfume.
She finally broke it.
"I want an entrance," she said, her voice low but clear. Sharp as broken glass.
Killian looked up, head tilting like a predator evaluating prey. "You want a spectacle."
"I want a resurrection."
He smirked, slow and dangerous. "Then we'll give them a miracle."
She leaned forward, eyes fierce. "I need access to Lorenzo's villa. I need to own the night."
"You already do." He flicked the coin toward her. She caught it without looking.
"Tell me, Rosa," he murmured, voice like velvet dipped in arsenic, "what's your endgame?"
"Exposure. Destruction. Closure."
Killian's eyes gleamed like ice in moonlight. "Closure is a myth. But destruction? That, I can give you."
She stood, velvet dress whispering against her skin. "Then get to work. I'll handle the rest."
He caught her wrist just as she turned to leave. His touch was cool, like marble. Barely there, but it stopped her cold.
"If you go through with this," he said quietly, "you can't come back from it."
She turned her head slowly, eyes hard. "I already did. And the version of me that returned? She's not afraid of hell anymore."
---
Three nights later.
The Mancini villa hadn't changed. Same stone lions at the entrance, same winding gravel path, same blood-red roses crawling up the iron gates like they wanted to strangle the estate from the outside.
But tonight, it wore grief like a crown.
The grand ballroom was a cathedral of crystal and shadow. Golden candelabras bathed everything in honey light. Ice sculptures, floral arches, white lilies, and ivory drapes turned the room into a funeral wrapped in luxury. The string quartet played something soft and haunting.
"In Loving Memory of Rosa Bianca DeLuca-Mancini – Five Years Gone" was etched in gold at the center of the room, surrounded by black-and-white portraits of her—of the girl they thought they'd buried.
She nearly laughed.
The irony was vicious.
She wore black. Not out of respect, but defiance. Her gown hugged her frame like a second skin, velvet with a slit high enough to wound. Her hair was pinned back tightly, her makeup sharp, dark, unapologetic. Eyes outlined in kohl, lips painted the color of sin.
Cassian had offered to walk in with her. He even joked about throwing glitter.
But this moment? It needed to be hers.
She walked in alone.
And every step was a scream.
Gasps rippled like thunder through the crowd. Glasses slipped from shaking hands. The quartet choked mid-note. Some guests stepped back instinctively, as if they were seeing a ghost crawl out of the grave.
Lorenzo Mancini stood near the bar, surrounded by sycophants and socialites. He turned, champagne flute in hand, laughing at something a senator whispered—then he saw her.
And the world stopped.
For a second, he didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Then his face contorted—rage, confusion, fear all clashing like crashing waves.
"Security!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Get her out—"
"No." Her voice cut through the silence like a blade. Clear. Final. Her heels echoed as she stepped under the chandelier, where the golden plaque bearing her name glittered like mockery.
"I'm not leaving, Lorenzo. Not this time."
A hush fell. Guests stared, unsure whether to run or kneel.
Cassian appeared near the door, leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, smirking. Beside him stood Killian Rizzo, dressed in all black, a shadow with eyes like knives.
Lorenzo's face twisted with fury. "This is a private event."
"And I'm the guest of honor, am I not?" she asked, gesturing to her own damn memorial. "It is my death day, after all."
"You're dead," he spat.
She smiled, slow and vicious. "And you're about to wish you were."
The room tensed. People began to murmur. Phones were recording. Eyes widened as realization dawned like a slow eclipse.
She turned to the crowd.
"Did he tell you how I died?" Her voice was steady, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Did he tell you I fell down the stairs? Overdosed? Slipped into the sea?"
Whispers erupted. Some faces paled. Others looked away.
"He told so many stories, I started to believe I never existed."
Lorenzo stormed toward her, face red with rage. "Get her the fuck out—now!"
Two guards moved. Cassian met them halfway. The first went down before he even raised his hand, a precise hit to the neck that sent him crashing into a champagne tower. The second hesitated. One look at Cassian's smile, and he backed off fast.
"You're surrounded, Mancini," Killian said as he stepped forward. "Every camera here is already streaming."
Lorenzo's eyes darted. "You wouldn't—"
"I already did."
Rose's gaze locked onto Lorenzo again. "I have proof," she said. "Of everything. The laundering. The trafficking. The offshore accounts. All tied back to your fleet."
"You think that scares me?" he growled.
"It should."
She reached into her clutch and pulled out a flash drive, tossing it to the floor at his feet. It bounced once, then settled like a sentence.
"That's the original confession Anna Ricci recorded before your men left her for dead."
A loud gasp broke through the crowd. Someone dropped their drink.
"She trusted you," Rose said. "She begged you to protect her. And you buried her instead. Just like you tried to bury me."
Lorenzo shook with fury. "You want to destroy everything? Fine. But don't pretend you're better than me."
"I'm not better," she whispered, voice hollow and dark. "I'm just worse at dying."
And then everything exploded.
Panic hit like a bomb. Guests scattered, whispering, tripping over their own fear. Phones rang. Paparazzi who had slipped in as waiters bolted toward exits, already uploading footage. Rumors turned into news in real time.
Killian was already moving, grabbing her hand. "Time to go."
Cassian stayed behind, holding the chaos at bay with a calm smile and cold eyes.
---
Outside, the storm had broken again.
Rain hit the car roof like bullets as Killian drove. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to. The silence between them wasn't empty. It was loaded.
"You know this is war now," he finally said.
She stared out the window. Mascara streaked slightly from the rain—not tears.
"I declared war five years ago," she said. "Tonight just made it official."
---
Later, Cassian found her on her balcony.
She was barefoot, wrapped in a robe, drenched in moonlight. Lightning cracked over Milan like the world was splitting open.
He stood quietly behind her for a long time before speaking. "You did it."
She didn't answer.
He stepped forward, touched her shoulder. "You okay?"
"No."
He slid his arms around her from behind, his warmth grounding her.
"Do you regret it?"
"I regret trusting him," she whispered. "But not burning him."
He kissed the side of her neck, gentle. Reverent. "Then let it all burn."
And she did.
Because she wasn't a widow.
She wasn't a ghost.
She wasn't a victim.
She was a storm wrapped in skin.
And this was only the beginning.