Chapter 1
RED, WHITE & BELLUCCI FIREWORKS
Chapter One: The Stand Beside the Interstate
Scripture: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” — Psalm 27:1
Tarot Spread: The Tower, The Emperor, Seven of Wands, The Moon, Ace of Wands
Italian Quote: “Il fuoco rivela ciò che il buio nasconde.”
The fire reveals what the darkness hides.
The fireworks stand went up five across the interstate before anybody in New Orleans had time to ask who approved it.
Red canvas.
White trim.
Blue lights.
Gold Bellucci lettering across the front big enough to see from the highway.
RED, WHITE & BELLUCCI FIREWORKS.
Vinny Bellucci stood in front of it with his black sunglasses on, arms crossed, looking less like a man selling Roman candles and more like a capo supervising a border crossing.
Beside him, Armani Lipari adjusted his gold watch and stared at the delivery trucks lined up behind the tent.
“This was supposed to be temporary,” Armani said.
Vinny looked at the forty-foot banner snapping in the humid July wind.
“It is temporary.”
“Vinny, you got a cashier booth, a security gate, three refrigerated drink coolers, a permit office, and a VIP fireworks consultation table.”
Vinny shrugged.
“People need guidance.”
“They need sparklers.”
“They think they need sparklers. What they want is a memory.”
Across the lot, Valeri Caronna stepped out of the black Beamer and looked at the stand with one hand on her hip.
She had seen Bellucci ideas before.
She had seen restaurants become fronts, bakeries become confessionals, bridal boutiques become intelligence centers, and cooking classes become family tribunals.
But a Fourth of July fireworks stand on the edge of New Orleans with Vinny and Armani running it?
That was not business.
That was prophecy with a fuse.
Val walked toward them slowly, watching cousins move crates through the back like they were unloading relics instead of fireworks.
“Tell me this is legal,” she said.
Vinny smiled.
“It is permitted.”
“That was not what I asked.”
Armani pointed toward a folding table where Nazzareno Bellucci had set up his notary stamp under a small American flag.
“Nazzareno checked everything.”
Val looked at the notary table.
“In the fireworks stand?”
Vinny nodded.
“Public-facing service.”
Val stared at him.
“You put a notary desk between bottle rockets and Black Cat firecrackers?”
“For convenience.”
“For who?”
“For Americans.”
The Tower card sat heavy in Val’s spirit before she ever pulled the deck from her purse.
Something about the stand felt too loud, too bright, too ready to fall.
The Emperor was Vinny, of course, standing there like he had personally negotiated with the sky.
Seven of Wands was Armani, already defensive, already watching the families.
The Moon was the thing nobody was saying.
And the Ace of Wands was the fuse.
A beginning.
A warning.
A flame.
By noon, the crowd came hard.
Families from Metairie.
Tourists from Bourbon Street.
Cousins from every direction.
Kids pointed at shelves labeled Bayou Boomers, Crescent City Cracklers, Lipari Lightning, and Bellucci Bombs.
Vivika ran a small table near the register selling red, white, and blue hair ribbons for her baton team, Bellucci Twirls.
“Five dollars,” she told a woman. “Ten if you want mafia sparkle.”
The woman blinked.
Vivika smiled sweetly.
“It’s glitter.”
Val almost laughed until she saw two men in dark shirts standing too still near the artillery shells.
Not customers.
Not cousins.
Watchers.
Vinny saw them too.
He did not move fast.
That was never Vinny’s way.
He moved like royalty after midnight, calm enough to make other people nervous.
He leaned toward Armani.
“Who are they?”
Armani’s jaw tightened.
“Not Lipari.”
“Not Bellucci either.”
Val felt the air shift.
Then a delivery van with no logo pulled into the far side of the lot.
No plates on the front.
Mud on the tires.
Black ribbon tied around the back handles.
The driver got out, left one wooden crate near the tent entrance, and drove off before anyone could stop him.
On top of the crate was a card.
Black.
Gold crown.
No name.
No address.
Just one sentence written in red ink.
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL JULY 4TH MIDNIGHT.
Armani cursed under his breath.
Vinny picked up the card.
Val touched his wrist.
“Don’t.”
He looked at her.
“You feel something?”
Val nodded.
“The Tower.”
Vinny’s face changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Because in Tre Quarti, cards did not warn for decoration.
They warned because something was already moving.
From the back of the fireworks stand, one of the cousins called out.
“Vinny, you want this crate in storage?”
Vinny looked at the black crown again.
Then he looked at Val.
Two hearts that beat as one.
“No,” Vinny said. “Put it where I can see it.”
Armani stepped closer.
“That is how people get blown up.”
Vinny slid the card into his pocket.
“No. That is how people find out who sent the match.”
By sunset, Red, White & Bellucci Fireworks glowed against the interstate like a carnival built by sinners.
And inside the locked crate, something knocked once.
Not loud.
Not accidental.
Once.
Like whatever waited inside already knew their names.
Prayer:
Lord, cover this house, this city, and every soul standing near the fire. Let no hidden enemy prosper in the dark. Give Vinny wisdom, give Armani discernment, and give Valeri sight before the fuse is lit. Turn every trap back on the hand that set it, and let truth rise brighter than any firework in the sky. Amen.
