Crimson Flags Novels & Stories

The stench of cordite and copper ink still clung to the silk wall coverings of the grand salon, but the blood had been sanitized. Two junior enforcers had scrubbed the parquet floor with industrial bleach, leaving a pale, chemical halo where Enzo Vanni’s head had rested less than twenty minutes ago. Outside, the pre-dawn sky had bruised into a dark, suffocating purple, the storm over Lake Como slowly exhausting its kinetic fury into a thick, low-hanging fog.

The point was… The street artist known as Black Crimson seemed to speak straight to my soul with every showpiece he delivered. He only worked in the spray paint medium and kept it strictly to three colors: black, white, and red. The image-half of his two-part murals always showcased some modern-day fairy-tale retelling, and the text-half had a famous quote that was somehow tied into the picture. The quotes he chose could be silly or deep, but they were always meaningful and enlightening, and I somehow felt as if he’d written them directly for me. Every time.

“The Phanton line has come to an end and a hybrid cannot rule the kingdom.” “I accept Princess tawny’s proposal. So, who here has the guts to challenge me for the right to the princess’s hand and the throne?” Crimson stands, face red and eyes turning from their yellow to the crimson color I love so much. His anger is palpable, and the vicious voices die down to disgruntled grumbles. “That’s what I thought.” Crimson steps back but does not sit back down, remaining by my side instead.

ILANA. The Blood Moon Festival came five days too early. On the third evening, the moon bathed its eerie, crimson glow over the Nightshade Pack. This was an event rarely experienced and considered by the pack to be a sign from the Moon Goddess, hastening the fate of two destined mates. The pack was in an uproar of joyful frenzy. The whole of the pack square hummed with excitement, as though even the air vibrated in anticipation. I faltered at the door to Rana's small cabin and brushed off invisible lint from the pale blue dress that Rana had lent me for tonight. "Rana, are you sure about this?" I asked, trying to keep the nerves from edging my voice.

Maybe that was why Marc even had this ceremony done today. "Now the ceremony shall be finalized," the old man said as I watched him bring out what seemed like a red ointment. A finger dipped inside as he marked my forehead with the ointment. A slight drop dripped on my nose. A sniff left a stun. It wasn’t just a colored ointment; from the smell, this was blood. That was something I was sure of. "Stop!" A yell echoed through the room. As I turned to see who it was, Dominic was standing there, beside him was Nate.

She raised the spirit-summoning flag in the air, and it turned bright red again, emanating a lethal aura. As she descended, the flag in her right hand was aimed toward Qasim. Qasim’s surroundings were shrouded in a red glow that was so dazzling it almost looked like fireworks. Clang! The crisp sound of metal hitting sounded. There was also a crackling sound around them. With a loud rumble, the ground instantly collapsed. Those who were unconscious from the spirit-summoning flag started waking up. They looked around them as if they were waking up from a dream, feeling embarrassed and shocked.

He didn’t speak. Aleksander stood at the front, gesturing to the screen where a mafia crest flickered in bold red. “A new group out of Naples,” he said. “Decided to get brave. They intercepted one of our shipments last night near the port. Cargo worth over four million gone, poof. Just like that. And they left us a message.” He tapped the screen. A grainy image popped up, three bodies hanging upside down from a crane, throats slit, a snake symbol scorched into their chests.

Neera stood in her balcony, the skyline behind her glowing gold and steel. The letter burned quickly in the fireproof dish she kept for other purposes — evidence disposal, mostly. She watched it curl and blacken until nothing but ash remained. Kieran Renzaro’s offer — his arrogant, polished, impossible offer — was reduced to smoke. And she didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t play his game. Wouldn’t be someone’s pawn, no matter how shiny the paycheck or how seductive the power behind it. She wasn’t for sale.