Blood in the roses

The private jet touched down in Verona just after midnight, its sleek silhouette barely visible under the heavy shroud of clouds. Valentina Moretti stepped onto the tarmac, the city’s summer heat wrapping around her like a silk glove. Familiar, yet foreign.

It had been eight years since she left.

Her black heels clicked against the pavement as she walked toward the waiting car—her father’s. The diplomatic seal gleamed on the license plate, but the man inside wasn’t a chauffeur. It was Luca, her father’s longtime aide, his eyes tight with worry.

“Valentina,” he greeted, opening the door. “Your father’s expecting you. He’s… preoccupied with a security matter.”

Valentina slid in. “When is he not?”

She had returned for a simple reason: to spend the summer with her father before taking on a political internship in Geneva. But even before the car pulled away, something in her gut whispered: Nothing about this summer will be simple.

The Romano estate stood like a beast carved from stone and shadow.

Dante Romano leaned on the balcony of his father’s study, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Below, the city lights of Verona flickered like stars drowned in smog. His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number. But he answered.

“She’s back,” a voice said. “The diplomat’s daughter.”

Dante didn’t flinch. “And you’re sure she’s not working for them?”

“No. But she’ll draw attention. And she’s connected. We need her watched.”

A moment of silence passed. Then: “I’ll handle it.”

He dropped the phone into his pocket and exhaled. Watching her wasn’t the problem.

It was the fact that he already remembered her—dark hair, sharp tongue, the way she once slapped him across the face at a charity gala five years ago. And now she was back. Older. Smarter.

And unknowingly stepping into a war.