Villa Rosso – Seven Days After the Funeral
Sienna stood in the courtyard where Alessandro once held meetings beneath the olive trees. But today, the men who had once filled those chairs — his capos, lieutenants, bodyguards — were lined up, silent and sweating in the sun.
She looked at them one by one, cold and regal in a fitted black suit, no jewelry except her wedding band and a single black diamond at her throat. Eyes behind dark sunglasses. Voice like a verdict.
"Mio marito vi ha scelti per lealtà." (My husband chose you for loyalty.)
She began walking slowly down the line.
"Ma io ho perso un marito. Un re. E voi non avete mosso un dito."
(But I lost a husband. A king. And you did nothing.)
They shifted. One opened his mouth to protest — she raised a hand.
Silence fell again.
"Non ho bisogno di uomini deboli. Non ho bisogno di soldati che piangono al funerale e complottano a cena."
(I don't need weak men. I don't need soldiers who cry at the funeral and plot over dinner.)
She stopped. Then:
"Siete tutti fuori."
(You're all out.)
Gasps. A few muttered curses. But none dared step forward.
She turned her back on them.
"Fuori dal mio impero, prima che decida che siete morti anche voi."
(Out of my empire, before I decide you're dead too.)
---
One Week Later – Napoli, Underground Fight Club
Sienna didn't replace the men with politicians or businessmen.
She went to the places power lived in shadows — underground rings, abandoned train stations, prison corridors, whorehouses that trafficked more secrets than skin.
She found them.
The forgotten. The underestimated.
Women who knew how to use knives, poisons, guns, and silence.
A former MI6 asset turned gun-runner in Bari.
A Sicilian smuggler with five murder charges and a genius IQ.
A trans fixer from Rome who knew every back door in European finance.
A Nigerian assassin nicknamed "La Vedova" (The Widow), whose hands had never been caught with blood.
And then there was Lucrezia — a former nun-turned-hitwoman who claimed she heard the Virgin Mary every time she fired a bullet.
They called themselves:
Le Figlie della Notte. (The Daughters of the Night.)
Sienna brought them to Villa Rosso.
Trained them.
Armed them.
Bound them by blood and code.
"Io vi do uno scopo," she told them. (I give you purpose.)
"Ma vi chiedo una cosa sola: mai mentire. Mai tradire. E se un giorno dovete uccidermi… fatelo con rispetto."
(But I ask one thing: never lie. Never betray. And if one day you must kill me… do it with respect.)
They bowed.
She had no army before.
Now she had something better:
Sorelle. (Sisters.)
And war was coming.
---
Napoli – Quartieri Spagnoli – Midnight
It started with a whisper.
A dealer disappeared from the port with a bullet between the eyes.
A trafficker's safe house burned to the ground — only his Rolex and teeth were left to identify him.
A capo who once spat at Sienna's orders was found in his own car trunk, his mouth stuffed with wedding rice.
No one saw who did it.
But everyone knew who sent the message.
Sienna Black was claiming the streets.
And this time, she wasn't asking.
---
Villa Rosso – Strategy Room
The long oak table was no longer occupied by Alessandro's capos. Now, it was surrounded by women — killers, spies, smugglers, hackers. The Daughters of the Night. All dressed in black. All loyal.
A large map of Southern Italy was pinned to the wall, red lines marking routes: arms, drugs, intel, and power.
Sienna stood before them like a commander before battle.
"Oggi prendiamo tutto ciò che ci appartiene." (Today we take back everything that belongs to us.)
No applause. No cheers.
Just nods. Purpose.
Each woman had a target — a business, a territory, a rival.
And by dawn, each one would belong to Sienna.
---
Bari – Docks
Lucrezia, the ex-nun with a sniper's patience, took the northside docks. Two corrupt customs officers were found locked in a shipping container marked confessione (confession).
She left their ledgers on the police chief's doorstep — empty threats turned into real leverage.
---
Palermo – Luxury Casino
Marisol, the hacker, took over the back-end of the Santoro casino empire. Within two hours, all camera feeds rerouted to Sienna's servers.
She bled them dry from the inside — and sent a rose-shaped USB to the boss's wife.
The message was clear: You're not losing to a man. You're losing to something worse.
---
Napoli – Backstreets
And Sienna — she didn't stay hidden.
She walked the same streets her enemies tried to erase her from. In broad daylight. Black dress, black shades, black diamond ring.
A priest offered her a blessing.
She smiled. "Padre, le preghiere non mi servono. Ho già l'inferno ai miei piedi."
(Father, I don't need prayers. I already have hell at my feet.)
They called her a ghost.
But she wasn't haunting the streets.
She was owning them.
---
Back at Villa Rosso – Two Days Later
Reports came in like music.
Territories flipped. Banks emptied. Rivals vanished.
In one week, Sienna did what most couldn't do in a year:
She proved the underworld could kneel to a woman — and still be afraid.
And in the final briefing, as her Daughters drank from crystal glasses and counted the spoils, Sienna raised hers slowly.
"A mio marito," she said softly. (To my husband.)
Then her eyes turned cold.
"E alla sua eredità... che ora è mia."
(And to his legacy... which now belongs to me.)
---
Private Vault Lounge, Under the Bahnhofstrasse
The air smelled like old money and betrayal.
Sienna entered the underground lounge with no guards. That was the message — I'm not afraid of any of you.
She wore tailored navy, hair pulled back tight, lips crimson like the memory of blood.
At the long marble table sat Don Émile Moreau, head of the Marseille arms network.
To his left, Petra Varga, Eastern European syndicate queen in her own right.
And flanking them, silent watchers — killers in suits.
No smiles.
"You've made noise," Moreau said, swirling his wine. "Men are afraid."
Sienna sat.
"Good. Fear is a currency."
Petra raised a brow. "But can you hold it?"
Sienna leaned forward.
"I don't intend to hold it. I intend to own it. Then burn what's left."
Silence.
Then Moreau smiled — a slow, serpent's grin.
"You're not your husband."
Sienna didn't blink.
"I know. He's dead."
She slid a folder across the table. Inside: blueprints, routes, bribe records — everything the Black Syndicate still owned.
"Join me," she said, "or find yourselves beneath me."
Neither moved for a long time.
But when Petra finally reached for the folder, Sienna knew: they just gave me Europe's attention.
---
Villa Rosso – Midnight Strategy Session
The storm had passed in Zurich.
Now came the thunder.
The Daughters gathered in the library-turned-command room, low lights casting long shadows. Maps, documents, and names littered the long oak table.
Sienna stood before a chalkboard — black as night.
She picked up a piece of white chalk and began writing.
Fifteen names. One by one.
1. Giorgio Marino – Logistics; double dealer, coward
2. Salvatore Mancini – Ran intel for Ricci; leaked safehouse locations
3. Luca Greco – Used Black money to fund Marseille's betrayal
4. Emilio Rinaldi – Bribed the Carabinieri to look the other way
5. Alfredo Costa – Called Sienna "a mourning bitch" at Ricci's party
6. Daniele Moretti – Wiretapped Alessandro's wedding night
7. Antonio Giordano – Disposed of evidence for Ricci
8. Franco Bellini – Drove the getaway car
9. Matteo Ferretti – Brokered silence among the rank
10. Nicola Romano – Supplied the sniper
11. Gianni Sforza – Hid Ricci after the hit
12. Lorenzo Vitale – Killed a loyal soldier who tried to warn Sienna
13. Sandro Iacopo – Provided false leads
14. Domenico Caruso – Finance handler who covered their payments
15. Leonardo Ricci – The traitor. The architect. The last.
Sienna dropped the chalk.
The board was complete.
She turned to her Daughters, fire behind her calm.
"One by one," she said. "We cut the head, then the tail. No mercy. No hesitation."
A pause.
Then she whispered:
"Questa è la mia vendetta."
(This is my vendetta.)
And the hunt began.
---
Target: Giorgio Marino
Location: Antwerp, Belgium
Occupation: Logistics Coordinator – Former ally turned traitor
Rain fell in sheets over the harbor. Cargo ships groaned. A freighter waited at dock 17 — Giorgio Marino was inside, checking manifests for a shipment he thought was protected.
He didn't notice the woman until it was too late.
She moved like a whisper through steel and shadow — Amara, the quietest of Sienna's Daughters. Camouflage coat, gloves, and matte crimson lips.
He turned. Blinked.
"Chi sei?" (Who are you?)
One shot. Between the ribs.
He gasped, fell to his knees.
She leaned in, tilted his chin, and kissed his cheek.
Her lipstick stained him like a signature.
Then she whispered in his ear:
"Per Sienna Black."
(For Sienna Black.)
When the body was discovered the next morning, Antwerp's underworld didn't just react — it trembled.
The police couldn't explain the lipstick. But the criminals knew exactly what it meant.
---
Villa Rosso – That Night
Sienna stood at the map wall, Giorgio's name now struck with a red X.
A red lipstick sat in a crystal case before her.
"Da oggi, ogni uomo sulla lista muore con un bacio."
(From today, every man on the list dies with a kiss.)
Each Daughter took a tube of Crimson No. 7, custom-blended in Milan. A shade that would be remembered.
"So when their blood dries... my name stays on their skin."
No noise. Just nods.
They dispersed into the night, each carrying a target... and a kiss of death.
---
#Rome – Ricci's Penthouse, Aventine Hill#
Leonardo Ricci paced barefoot on the marble floors of his penthouse, a glass of Barolo trembling in his hand. The city lights shimmered below, but he no longer admired the view.
Not when three of his men were dead in forty-eight hours.
Each one executed cleanly. No noise. No struggle.
And each left with the same detail: a perfect matte red kiss on the cheek or collarbone. No message. No fingerprints. Just that.
He poured another glass and drank it too fast.
Giorgio. Salvatore. Rinaldi.
Gone.
The news came like funeral bells, and they all rang with the same name — whispered, then shouted:
Sienna Black.
She was supposed to grieve. Fall apart. She was supposed to disappear after Alessandro died. That was the plan.
"La puttana…" he spat. (The whore…)
But even as he said it, he didn't believe it.
He could hear Alessandro's voice in his head:
"If she ever breaks, Leo... it won't be down. It'll be out for blood."
And now the blood was his.
---
Security Meeting – Same Night
"Double the guards," Ricci barked. "No one enters this building without a full check."
He looked around at the remaining men.
Six. Only six of the original fifteen.
And none of them trusted each other anymore.
"She's sending a message," one muttered.
Ricci turned on him. "She's trying to scare us. That's all."
"Sir… she's succeeding."
Silence.
Ricci sat. Hands clasped, jaw clenched. His glass shattered against the floor.
"Find her. Kill her. Burn down that villa if you have to."
But deep down, he knew.
She wasn't coming with fire.
She was coming with precision. With memory. With red on her lips and his name on her list.
---
Rome – Pre-dawn light over Aventine Hill
Leonardo Ricci hadn't slept in two nights. His silk shirt clung to him, stained with sweat instead of blood — for now.
He stood at the window, watching the guards rotate outside his penthouse. Double shifts. Armed to the teeth. Motion sensors, facial scanners, even drones.
Still, none of it felt like enough.
Not when Giorgio Marino's son had found his father's body with a crimson kiss on the cheek.
Not when Salvatore Mancini's wife received his wedding ring by courier, wrapped in black lace.
Sienna wasn't just killing his men — she was branding them.
And he knew it wouldn't stop with soldiers.
---
The Safehouse Plan
"Move them out. Tonight," Ricci ordered, voice low but sharp.
His consigliere blinked. "La famiglia?"
Ricci nodded.
His wife, Isabella, and their two teenage children — Marco and Giulia — had no part in the bloodbath, but he knew Sienna's reach didn't honor innocence. Not after what he did to her.
They were relocated to a remote villa in Northern Sicily, surrounded by land, silence, and a private security team paid double what they were worth.
No phones. No visitors. Not even his name on the deed.
He kissed his wife on the cheek as they left. Her eyes trembled with questions.
"È solo per precauzione."
(It's just a precaution.)
But he didn't meet her eyes.
Because in his gut, Ricci knew.
He wasn't protecting them from Sienna.
He was hiding them from his own death.
---
Later That Night – Alone
The penthouse was quieter now. Too quiet. Ricci opened the safe, staring at the old Polaroid — him, Alessandro, and a younger Sienna on a yacht in Capri. Laughing. Innocent.
He tore it in half. Then in quarters.
But memory could not be shredded.
And outside, just beyond the guards and walls, death wore lipstick... and she was getting closer.
---