Chapter 1
CARONNA BELLUCCI PRESS 🍒⚜️A Belluccia Blood NovelSet in the TRE QUARTI UniverseChapter TwoThe Cherry on TopZodiac: TaurusDessert: Torta della Nonna alle CiliegieCherry Expression: The cherry on topCrime Echo: Forged contracts and altered ownership recordsTarot: JusticeGemstone: Rose Quartz
By noon, the city had picked a side.
Not publicly.
New Orleans never worked that way.
The Quarter simply adjusted itself around power the way water bends around a stone dropped into the river.
People who owed money suddenly answered their phones.
Distributors who ignored emails all week suddenly requested updated invoices within minutes.
Three nightclub owners removed old promotional flyers from their windows before lunch.
And somewhere between breakfast and early afternoon, every single corrected edition from the front display sold out.
Valeri stood inside the bookstore watching the empty table beneath the chandelier lights.
Only the cream-colored sign remained.
CORRECTED EDITION
CARONNA BELLUCCI PRESS
She picked it up slowly.
The cardstock still smelled like fresh ink.
Fresh ink always reminded her of danger now.
Not books.
Not art.
Danger.
Behind her, one of the younger clerks rushed down the spiral staircase carrying another stack of hardcovers against his chest.
“We need more from storage.”
“You already sold through those?”
“All of them.”
Valeri looked toward the front windows where tourists wandered past pretending not to stare directly inside.
But they were staring.
The city smelled blood in the water.
And Bellucci always looked expensive when it bled.
Upstairs, the press office hummed quietly beneath amber lamps and cigarette smoke. Contracts covered the long walnut table beside stacks of manuscripts tied with black ribbon.
Vinny sat at the head of the room wearing rolled sleeves and reading glasses low on his nose while reviewing invoices like a man balancing church donations instead of reorganizing half the literary underworld of New Orleans.
Calm.
Always calm.
That frightened people more than violence.
One of the accountants slid a folder toward him carefully.
“These signatures don’t match the originals.”
Vinny flipped one page.
Then another.
Forgery.
Sloppy forgery too.
The kind desperate men made when they thought paperwork mattered more than relationships.
“They changed the percentages,” the accountant said quietly.
Vinny leaned back in his chair.
No anger crossed his face.
No surprise either.
“They thought nobody would notice.”
The accountant swallowed hard. “Looks that way.”
Vinny closed the folder.
“That’s disrespectful.”
The room went silent immediately.
Not because he raised his voice.
Because he didn’t.
Valeri stood near the doorway watching him.
That was what outsiders never understood about Vinny Bellucci.
He did not explode.
He reduced.
He took situations apart piece by piece until the other person realized they had already lost three conversations ago.
On the corner of his desk sat a polished cherry tart beneath a glass dome.
Torta della Nonna alle Ciliegie.
Custard.
Cherries.
Perfect crust.
Pretty enough for a grandmother’s kitchen.
Dangerous enough to hide poison if somebody wanted to.
Nothing entered Bellucci rooms by accident.
Not even dessert.
Vinny signed one paper calmly and slid it aside.
“Send corrected contracts.”
The accountant blinked. “That’s it?”
“No.”
Vinny removed his glasses slowly.
“Remove their future releases too.”
The accountant understood immediately.
Not punishment.
Erasure.
In Bellucci business, losing one contract hurt.
Losing future print rights destroyed bloodlines.
Downstairs, somebody laughed too loudly near the register before immediately lowering their voice.
The bookstore had changed.
People could feel it.
The old imprint had carried legitimacy.
The new imprint carried consequences.
Valeri crossed toward the office windows overlooking the street below. Across the road, the Bellucci nightclub sign glowed red against the daylight haze while delivery trucks crawled through traffic carrying seafood, liquor, flowers, and sealed crates nobody inspected carefully enough.
The city looked normal.
Tre Quarti was always most dangerous when it looked normal.
“You hungry?” Vinny asked suddenly.
Valeri turned.
“For what?”
He nodded toward the cherry tart.
“The city’s paying attention. Might as well feed it.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
“You compare everything to food.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Only business.”
A knock interrupted them.
One of the bookstore girls stepped nervously into the office.
“There’s a reporter downstairs.”
Vinny didn’t look up.
“Which paper?”
“The Times-Picayune.”
“Tell him no.”
“He said he only needs one quote.”
Vinny signed another corrected contract.
“He already got one.”
The girl hesitated. “What quote?”
Vinny finally looked up.
“Read the sign outside.”
The girl nearly laughed before catching herself and nodding quickly.
When she disappeared downstairs again, Valeri shook her head softly.
“You really enjoy this.”
Vinny cut one clean slice from the cherry tart.
“No.”
He placed the slice onto a black plate and handed it to her.
“I enjoy results.”
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the river.
Summer storms gathering.
The kind that turned the Quarter black and gold by evening.
Valeri took one bite of tart.
Sweet first.
Sharp afterward.
Exactly like Bellucci business.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time she answered.
The voice on the other end sounded nervous immediately.
“Miss Caronna…”
Valeri glanced toward Vinny.
He continued reviewing contracts calmly beneath the chandelier light while rain clouds gathered outside the bookstore windows.
“Yes?” she asked softly.
The man hesitated.
Then finally asked the question everybody in the city wanted answered.
“Is the press officially Bellucci now?”
Valeri looked up toward the gold lettering embossed across the office glass.
CARONNA BELLUCCI PRESS
Her name first.
His name last.
Permanent.
Public.
Printed.
“The city already knows the answer,” she said.
Then hung up.
