BLOOD AND ROSES

Isabella’s POV

Crimson paint slid from the end of my brush like fresh-spilled blood, placing towards the stark white of the canvas. I stepped back, wiping my arms at the apron that changed into already a battlefield of vintage stains, my armor towards the chaos that came with growing something raw. This painting felt different. Darker. Truer. Shapes bent and twisted across the space, figures caught mid-motion, their faces locked in agony and something disturbingly close to pleasure. It was the closest I’d ever come to putting my own insides on display.

The ViewArt Gallery’s end-of-year exhibition. Just thinking about it sent a spark racing through me. Damian Moretti’s company hosted the most important art event in New York. That was where real artists showed their work, not sheltered mafia princesses playing with brushes. If this piece made it in, maybe people would finally see me as more than Antonio Russo’s daughter.

Papa would never let me go alone. He barely let me breathe without an escort.

I dipped my brush into the dark red again, adding depth to the central figure’s wound, when the crack of gunfire split the afternoon open.

Beretta 92FS. Nine millimeter. Hollow point.

The recognition came automatically, the way you recognize a favorite song after the first note. Two shots, close together. Execution style. I didn’t even flinch anymore. This was Tuesday in the Russo house.

But my stomach tightened. That came from inside the mansion, not out in the courtyard where Papa handled most of his “business.” Inside meant bad. Really bad.

I unbuttoned my apron, straightened my jeans that were smeared all over with paint, and did not even worry to see whether I looked at all like the ‘proper’ daughter Papa was fond of introducing. My naked feet slid across the marble floor when I came out of my studio and walked into the living room.

I was hit by the metallic sharpness of blood before I was even inside.

Papa stood in the center of our pristine white space, his expensive suit untouched while the floor beneath him told another story. Five of his men stood in a loose circle around a body, a man I’d seen before at family gatherings. Blood seeped into the Persian rug, staining something that had cost more than most people’s cars.

“Isabella.” His voice cut through the haze. “Come here.”

I didn’t think, just moved forward, closer to the stillness of death. The man’s eyes stared at nothing, his mouth frozen in either shock or a final plea.

“You see this?” Papa gestured lazily toward the corpse, like he was pointing at a spill. “This is what happens to traitors in our family.”

I nodded, my face calm. Any sign of weakness would only confirm I wasn’t ready for the responsibilities he kept hinting were coming.

“Salvatore,” he said, nudging the man’s side with his polished shoe, “was feeding Torrino information, our shipments, meeting spots, even the layout of this house.” His tone hardened. “He thought he could sell us out without getting caught.”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. In this world, loyalty was worth more than money, but everyone had considered switching sides at some point. Even me.

“When I’m gone, Isabella, this will be yours to manage.” His eyes locked on mine, searching for something I wasn’t sure I had. “The choices, the consequences, the necessary eliminations. Are you ready for that?”

Am I ready to kill? The thought sat heavy in my throat.

“Yes, Papa,” I lied with ease. “I understand.”

His smile was the same one he’d worn the day he taught me to ride a bike, except now it was framed by blood. “Good. Tony, Marco, clean this up. Dinner’s in twenty minutes.”

His men moved without hesitation. The body vanished into plastic, the marble scrubbed as though nothing had happened.

Dinner went on as if the afternoon hadn’t been punctuated by murder. We sat at my great-grandfather’s oak table, the same table we’d used for my college graduation dinner a year ago. Papa led grace, hands folded, thanking God for family prosperity and safety.

The hypocrisy made my jaw ache.

How could you kill a man and then ask for blessings? I picked at my osso buco, appetite gone. How could you take a life and then pass the bread like it was nothing?

But my real thoughts stayed behind a polite smile, nodding when required, listening to business talk that passed for conversation.

Then Giuseppe, one of Papa’s oldest guards, appeared in the doorway with a phone. His face was tight as he crossed the room.

“Boss, you need to take this.”

Papa answered, his expression changing in slow degrees until the words on the other end landed hard. His knuckles whitened around the phone, and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

Then the storm hit.

His fist slammed into the table so hard the wine glasses rattled. Plates clattered, my mother’s antique candlesticks fell over.

“Those bastards!” His roar shook the air. “They burned the west coast shipment. Everything, gone.”

Chairs scraped. Hands went for weapons. This was the shift I’d seen all my life, domestic calm flipping into war footing in seconds.

“All of you, with me,” Papa ordered, voice sharp enough to cut. “We’ll send a message they won’t forget.”

At the doorway, he paused, scanning the men before fixing on Giuseppe and one other security guard. “You two, stay with Isabella. No one, in or out until I get back.”

Then they were away. The house became quiet, though there still lingered the smell of metal.

I languishingly floated back to my room, and the fatigue of maintaining my mask downed me like a piece of lead. Pictures were pinned to my walls, my books piled on top of each other in unstable towers and my paints all over the place, my little world where I could choose to be someone different.

I reached for an art history book when the gunshot came.

This one was different, sharper, with an odd echo I couldn’t place. Not one of Papa’s usual guns. Not anything I knew.

A chill spread through me.

Giuseppe had been carrying a Glock 19. That sound hadn’t been that.

Heavy footsteps moved across the living room below, steady and deliberate, heading for the main staircase. Heading for me.

Giuseppe should have called out. Should have told me it was safe.

But the house was silent except for those steps.

I pressed my back against my bedroom door, heart pounding, the truth hitting me all at once.

Someone had killed the last person standing between me and whatever was coming. And now they were on their way up.