The Romano estate was a fortress — all marble walls, wrought-iron gates, and stained glass that glowed like blood in the morning sun. But inside the cold stone halls, Isabella felt like a prisoner.
She sat silently in the war room, her legs dangling from a too-tall chair while her father and uncles pored over maps and trade routes, speaking in the curt, sharp dialect of men who'd long forgotten how to speak gently. She shouldn't have been there — children were not invited to these meetings. But she had a gift, and gifts were rarely wasted in their world.
"She can read them," Don Romano said. "Like a scent. She'll know if any of them are lying."
Isabella didn't respond. She never did when they used her like this. She just nodded and waited for the men to leave so she could go back to her books and her garden — the only two places that felt like hers.
When the meeting ended and the room emptied, she lingered, staring at the map of the city spread across the table. One red mark glowed on the north side — Russo territory.
Her fingertips hovered over it.
Adrian Russo.
That boy was like a splinter in her mind. Ever since their last encounter at school, she'd found herself remembering him when she didn't mean to — his sharp jaw, his defiant eyes, the flicker of power she'd seen in his hands. He'd saved her, and then pretended it meant nothing.
She hated that.
Worse, she hated that part of her didn't hate it.
"Isabella," her grandmother's voice called gently from the hallway. "Time to train."
---
Meanwhile, in the Russo estate's underground vault, Adrian was bruised and breathless. Sweat soaked through his black training shirt as he dodged a punch and delivered one of his own.
"Again," barked his uncle.
Adrian clenched his jaw and repeated the move — duck, strike, parry — only to be knocked down again.
"Too soft. You hesitate," his uncle growled. "In a real fight, hesitation kills. Especially with the Romanos."
Adrian bit back a retort. He didn't need another lecture. He knew the drill: No emotion. No second thoughts. No mercy.
But lately, he'd been slipping.
And her face — Isabella's — kept interfering.
He didn't understand it. She was the enemy. Her family had ruined his. Her father was rumored to have ordered the ambush that killed his cousin. She was a Romano, through and through.
But there was something different about her. Something controlled. Refined. Like a storm that hadn't decided whether to rain or burn.
He rose from the mat, ignoring the sting in his ribs.
He'd just have to burn brighter.
---
The next week at school, a storm was brewing — and it wasn't just in the sky.
Word had gotten around that the children of both mafia families had shown signs of rare power. Other students either avoided them or watched them like ticking bombs.
At lunch, whispers followed Isabella through the courtyard.
"Did you hear she made a teacher forget his own name?"
"I heard Adrian lit a man's jacket on fire—without touching him."
"They're both cursed."
She ignored them, even as the buzz settled in her spine. Her powers always flared when she was tense. She needed calm. Focus. Control.
Then she heard footsteps behind her.
"Hey, enchantress."
Her hands curled into fists before she turned.
Adrian stood there, his uniform crisp despite the wind, his expression unreadable.
"You forgot to insult me," she said.
He smirked. "Maybe I'm trying something new."
She raised an eyebrow. "Like what? Basic human decency?"
He stepped closer, enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. "Like figuring out what you really want."
The words caught her off guard, and for a moment, the courtyard disappeared. There was only the wind, the tension, and his gaze — not soft, not cruel, but curious.
"I want you to leave me alone," she lied.
"Liar."
Before she could respond, the earth shook.
A pulse of power surged from somewhere in the east wing of the academy. Students screamed. Glass shattered.
Adrian turned instinctively, stepping in front of Isabella just as another shockwave knocked them both to the ground.
Then — silence.
---
They stood slowly, bruised but breathing.
Smoke drifted from the hallway ahead. Something had exploded — and not by accident.
"We need to move," Adrian said. "That wasn't normal."
"No," Isabella agreed. "That was… familiar."
They followed the smoke down the corridor, where part of the wall had collapsed. Beneath the rubble was a mark — a symbol scorched into the floor.
A rose. Black and thorned. Not Romano. Not Russo.
Someone new.
Isabella reached out, her fingers glowing faintly. "There's energy left in it. Dark energy."
Adrian placed a hand near hers. His palm sparked. The mark hissed, reacting to their combined powers.
They looked at each other.
"What the hell is going on?" she whispered.
Adrian's eyes were hard. "Someone's trying to provoke a war."
---
Later that night, Isabella sat in her room, replaying everything. The explosion. The mark. The power that reacted to both of them.
She pulled out an old book from her grandmother's library — Il Patto di Sangue, the Blood Pact, an ancient chronicle of mafia alliances and rivalries. She flipped through until a drawing caught her eye.
The same rose. Black and thorned.
Her blood ran cold.
She wasn't supposed to know this. No child was.
The Black Rose Syndicate — a shadow group said to have once united multiple mafia bloodlines. Ruthless. Manipulative. Long thought dead.
But if they were back…
A knock at her window snapped her out of the thought.
Adrian.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed as she pushed it open.
"You found it, didn't you?" he said.
She didn't answer.
"You knew that symbol."
"So did you."
He climbed inside, his presence like a fire she couldn't smother. "They're trying to use us."
"Or destroy us," she said.
Silence stretched between them. Then Adrian spoke quietly.
"We should train. Together. If we combine our powers—"
"No," she cut in. "Our families would kill us both."
"They won't find out."
"You're naïve."
"And you're scared."
She looked away. "Of course I'm scared. This isn't a game. If we get caught, it won't be detention—it'll be a body bag."
He reached out, gently touching her wrist. "Then let's make sure we don't get caught."
She stared at him. At the fire in his eyes. At the quiet defiance she suddenly… admired.
"…Fine," she whispered. "But only until we find out who's behind the mark."
"And after?"
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.