Queen of ash

Iris:

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“Signora Rossi?”

One of my men called from just outside the office door, his voice muffled by the cheap wood. I sat behind my desk, nearly buried under the weight of paperwork from shipping manifests to coded ledgers, and dealt memos with the Bianchi family’s associates.

Being the underboss meant handling every problem the boss refused to touch. Lately, that meant everything. Nicholas had been scarce again, not because he was careless, but because he operated where I couldn’t: behind polished doors, negotiating with politicians, bankers, and foreign contractors, getting what he wanted without ever raising his voice, I ran the streets. I handled the impossible deals that kept our territory locked down tight, crushed threats before they had a chance to grow, and made sure every shipment, every word with rivals, every debt collected—or buried—was accounted for.

Nicholas was the face of diplomacy and influence, moving through gilded halls and whispered negotiations. I was the iron fist working unseen, navigating the back alleys and shadowed corners where loyalty wasn’t given, but bought with fear and respect was earned in blood. This role demanded ruthless decisions, sharp instincts, and a mind always ten steps ahead. The grind never stopped. The pressure never eased. But it was that unrelenting work. Cold, calculated, merciless…that kept us alive. That kept us on top.

He found me when I was running for my life, fleeing a rival family that thought they owned me after my own blood sold me out. I was the daughter of one of Rome’s most powerful politicians, but none of that mattered once my family handed me over like a pawn. Stripped of everything, marked by betrayal, with only a ruthless drive to stay alive. He pulled me out of the fire and into the Bianchi family, gave me a place where I wasn’t a prize or a target, but a force to be reckoned with. I owed him everything…my life, my rise, and my role at the top of the empire he built from the ground up. But even with that loyalty between us, even knowing we’d both die for each other without a second thought... I still wanted to snap his neck clean off every time he left me buried under a mountain of shit no one else had the guts or brains to handle.

“Come in” I said, trying to mask the exhaustion in my voice. I didn’t need anyone thinking I was slipping—not when eyes were already on me, waiting for cracks.

The door creaked open. One of the younger guys stepped in, cradling a stack of fresh paperwork like it might explode. He looked nervous, as if I might lash out just for breathing wrong.

“Boss said you have to sign these as well…” He muttered

I glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. If looks could kill, he’d already be a cold body in the trunk of a car. Still, I just sighed and pointed to a bare corner of the desk.

“Yeah, whatever. Put them here.”

He placed them down gently, like he was handling a bomb, then disappeared without another word. I didn’t blame him. Even I wouldn’t want to be near me today.

Outside my office window, the city of Palermo simmered under the Sicilian sun its crumbling facades and narrow streets steeped in history and silence. The Palermo district was Bianchi territory and had been for decades. Not just in name. In blood. Every street vendor, every butcher, every crooked cop and wide-eyed kid knew who kept this part of town in order. We didn’t ask for gratitude. We didn’t need parades. We had order and, in a city, carved up by wolves, that counted for something.

The Bianchi family ruled with an iron fist, yes, but not one that crushed without reason. We weren’t like the others. We didn’t bleed the people dry. We didn’t leave bodies in alleyways unless someone gave us a damn good reason. That difference was everything. It meant the old women who swept their stoops in the morning nodded when our cars passed. It meant the corner shops never paid late, not out of fear, but respect. Because in a city ruled by mafia empires, the people of Palermo knew one thing for sure: under our protection, they slept a little easier.

We weren’t saints. But we kept the wolves at bay.

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The silence in my office wasn’t peaceful. It was tight drawn thin like wire over a city that never truly slept. Outside, Palermo breathed in low pulses: the buzz of scooters weaving through alleyways, a vendor shouting over a cheap radio, the metallic clatter of everyday survival. Noise, always—but never loud enough to drown out what crept beneath it.

I shuffled a stack of untouched contracts, mind a thousand miles from the ink. My gaze tracked the street outside, but my thoughts already circled somewhere darker.

Then came the knock. Not hesitant. Not loud. Measured.

“Enter,” I said flatly, without looking.

The door creaked open, and Marco stepped inside. He didn’t flinch at my tone—one of the few who’d learned not to. That alone told me this wasn’t routine.

“Well, well,” I murmured, eyes still on the window. “If you’re here, either someone’s dead, or about to be.”

“Closer to the second,” he said, walking forward. “We’ve got something.”

I finally turned toward him; my eyebrows raised. “If it’s another port delay, they can sit on the crates and think about their incompetence.” I leaned back in my chair, studying him. “You don’t bring me rumors. So, let’s hear it.”

He slid a folded piece of paper onto the desk. “Message. No signature, but you’ll recognize the hand.”

I picked it up without urgency. My eyes scanned the handwriting. Slanted. Clean. Smug.

Fiore.

Of course.

“‘Enna expands. Palermo falters. Maybe it’s time the island had new order.’”

I read aloud; voice flat. I tossed the note on the desk like it offended the wood. “Poetic. For a family that still counts bullets like rosary beads.”

Marco stayed silent, waiting.

“Their timing’s shit,” I muttered, lighting the edge of the paper with my silver lighter. “They really think Nicholas being away means we’re asleep at the wheel.”

“Port activities changed,” Marco said. “Dock workers talking, some money shifting hands under the table. Low-level movement—for now.”

I watched the message curl into ash in the tray, then looked up at him.

“Find out who’s leaking. Who’s listening to Fiore whispers and pretending it’s just wind.”

My tone sharpened. “If someone’s letting them plant roots on my soil, I want their name, their price, and a list of who they’re breathing near.”

Marco nodded once. “And when we find them?”

I leaned forward, elbows resting on the worn desk, my pale green eyes cold and sharp, like emerald knives cutting through the dim light

“Bring them to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

“I don’t want bodies dumped in the alleyways,” I said with a cold smirk. “It ruins the scenery and honestly, it’s sloppy. If someone’s selling my city to the Fiores, I want to hear their lies straight from their trembling mouths before I make them regret it.”

Marco’s nod was slow and deliberate. “So, you want to send the message yourself.”

“Of course,” I said, voice low and dangerous. “Let Enna know Iris Rossi doesn’t outsource threats.”

He turned to leave.

“And Marco,” I called, stopping him like a final warning.

He looked back.

“No bruises. No blood. Not yet. I want them scared—still breathing when they figure out how deep the knife really goes. Fear tastes better when it’s patient.”

The door shut behind him. I sat there a moment longer, watching the last of the smoke fade from the ashtray.

The Fiore family thought Palermo had gone soft. That Nicholas was too distracted, and I was too buried to notice the cracks.

They were wrong.

They wanted to test Palermo’s backbone. Fine.

Let them taste how hard it snaps.

I don’t flinch.

I don’t break.

I crush.

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The basement of the Bianchi manor wasn’t listed on any blueprints.

It sat beneath layers of old stone, cut off from the hum of the city above. No windows. No sound but what you brought with you. The air was always cold, no matter the season, and it clung to the skin like damp regret.

It was built for one thing: reminders

I walked down the stairs like I owned the silence. Each step deliberate, the sharp click of my heels cutting clean through the thick basement air. This place, cold concrete walls, dim overhead lights, the stink of sweat and fear soaked into stone, was where illusions went to die.

I wore tailored black suit pants, and a charcoal button-up shirt tucked in with precision, cinched by a black leather belt. My holster rested against my hip, the weight of the pistol was more comforting than threatening. I rarely needed to draw the pistol resting there, but it stayed with me like breath. Like certainty.

The cuffs of my shirt were rolled past my forearms. On one wrist, my silver watch ticked steady. Just beneath it, half-veiled by fabric and shadow, curled the ink of a thorned rose branch…the Bianchi crest. Our legacy. My vow. The thing I’d bled for more times than I could count.

My skin was caramel under the cold basement light. Chestnut hair pulled back tight, not a strand out of place. Pale green eyes scanned the room like they already knew the ending, because they usually did.

I didn’t need to look intimidating.

I was.

Marco was waiting when I stepped in. The two men tied to the chairs flinched the moment they saw me. They weren’t made men, just low-level errand boys for the Fiores, trying too hard to puff up in a room that would swallow them whole.

“Signora Rossi,” Marco greeted with a nod.

I said nothing. Just let my eyes glide across the room, then over them, like I was inspecting a pair of insects pinned to glass. The basement was cold, sterile, quiet. The kind of place where voices carried too far and screams hit the walls like birds crashing into glass.

I took a slow lap around the room, dragging the silence out, making them squirm. I didn’t rush moments like this. Fear needed time to ferment.

“Well, well,” I said at last, casually. “You boys don’t look like much. And yet… here we are.”

The smaller one opened his mouth, some pitiful excuse forming, but I raised a finger without even looking his way. He shut it just as fast.

I stopped in front of them, leaning one hip against the steel table. I crossed my arms and let the cool weight of the moment settle.

“You thought you could whisper for Fiore in my streets and not be noticed?” I asked, calm, conversational, like I was asking about the weather. “Enna’s dogs think they can mark Palermo and walk away untouched?”

No answer. Just a twitch of fear in the eyes. Good.

I leaned in, close enough that my breath hit the taller one’s cheek.

“You were warned. This city isn’t neutral ground. It belongs to us. To me.”

I straightened again and moved behind their chairs, slow, thoughtful.

“You’re not soldiers. You’re not made. You’re meat.” My voice dipped into something colder. “And they sent you because meat burns easy.”

They said nothing. Just sweat and swallowed fear.

“Here’s how this works,” I continued, coming back around and resting my hands flat on the table. My eyes met theirs, pale green, sharp enough to cut. “You answer my questions. You tell me who you spoke to, what they promised you, who else is whispering where they shouldn’t be.”

I gave a slow smile. Not warm. Never warm.

“And one of you walks out.”

They blinked. One swallowed hard. Marco said nothing. He knew better than to interrupt me in this room.

“Lock the door,” I said without turning.

He did. The click echoed like a nail in a coffin.

I looked at the two of them—barely men, now frozen in place like prey waiting for the predator to choose which throat to rip first.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” I said softly. “It’s a test. Of how much pain you can sit through. Of how fast your loyalty snaps when you realize the Fiores won’t be coming to save you.”

I took a seat across from them, leaned back, and folded my hands.

“Now,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

The bigger one shifted in his seat, trying to put on a front. “We were just—”

I turned on him fast. Just one step, but sharp enough to make his voice die in his throat.

“I don’t care what you were ‘just’ doing,” I cut in. “You’re on my turf. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a message. So now I’m sending one back.”

I crouched in front of him, leveling my gaze with his. “I want names. Contacts. Every bastard whispering Fiore in Palermo. And you’re going to give them to me. Not because I’m asking…but because this is the kind version of me.”

I stood slowly, dusting imaginary lint from my sleeves. “The other version doesn't leave things so tidy.”

Their silence stretched. The smaller one swallowed hard.

“Look, we…we were only told to watch. That’s it. Just observe. Pass information. That’s all we know.”

I smiled: sharp, humorless.

“Good,” I said. “Because I want more than what you know. I want what you suspect. What you overheard. Every damn word you didn’t think mattered.”

I nodded once toward Marco, who stepped out of the shadows with a notebook and pen.

“You’ll talk,” I told them. “Because this is your only chance to do it with a tongue.”

I turned and walked toward the door, but just before leaving, I paused.

“Oh…and when we’re done?” I glanced back, eyes glinting in the low light. “You go back to Enna. You tell them how we do things in Palermo. You tell them who came to greet you… and how lucky you were to leave breathing.”

I left the door ajar, the faint click of the lock echoing like a promising warning. The muffled voices behind me didn’t need to be loud; I’d hear every confession, every lie, every crack in their resolve.

Palermo was mine to protect, and tonight, I reminded the Fiore family exactly who held the reins.

As I ascended the stairs, the weight of the city pressed in, but I carried it like armor. This war was far from over, and I was just getting started.

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