La Rosa's Web

The wind had no name in the trench where she lived.

It hissed through rusted pipes and broken grates like a serpent in mourning, curling around her still figure this woman in the shadows, legs folded beneath her, cloaked in the silence of everything she had lost.

She hadn't spoken in days, at least not out loud. What was there to say? Her lips were cracked from the salt in the air, but her cold, lifeless eyes remained wide open. Always watching, always remembering.

The world hadn't ended that day, but hers had.

Now, there was only the stench of sewage and seaweed as well as the wet concrete walls of a half collapsed tunnel somewhere beneath the forgotten belly of a coastal town. A place untouched by tourists, undesired by the desperate, a place deemed fit for ghosts.

She sat on a fraying velvet cushion she'd pulled from the ruins weeks ago, once part of her father's favorite chair.

Now it is soaked in mildew and grief, around her lay trinkets, broken frames, shards of porcelain, a silver cufflink the corner of a music board that no longer plays, as well as the echoes of a life that burned.

And then, like a match struck in darkness, it began...

The haunting memory of the day the world fell apart, a memory so merciless and perfect as if time itself had waited to unspool in cruel clarity.

It didn't come with a warning, just the quiet sparkle of a forgotten morning light and the soft scent of roasted coffee.

She had been walking through the grand hall, silk robe trailing, cup in hand, her bare feet making no sound against the marble.

The tiles were cold but familiar, clean, pristine with inlaid gold accents that shimmered under the sunlight.

The sunlight poured in from the arched windows, striking the chandelier that swayed gently from the ceiling, its crystals catching the light like a sky full of frozen stars.

She could hear the distant clattering of pots in the kitchen, a noise so normal and yet unreal.

That chandelier, her father once called it "La Bocca del Cielo" translates to "the mouth of heaven", a name given to this artful masterpiece by her late mother, back when she existed not just in portraits and ashes

As a child, she'd lie beneath it, pretending it whispered secrets through its trembling prisms, a lullaby of light and shadow.

But it was swaying too much that morning.

She paused, with brows furrowed.

The air felt off and heavy, almost like the house was holding its breath.

Her father's voice drifted from the study, low and tense seemingly talking to someone behind the thick closed doors.

She had rolled her eyes in nausea, it's always meetings and creepy shadows, she thought.

She had been planning to head to the library afterwards, maybe to reread one of her mother's old adventure books, to reminisce of the sense of peace and warmth the book supposedly passes to her, the warmth of motherhood she never got a chance to experience.

And then suddenly the chandelier fell, sending a shockwave down her spine.

It didn't shatter immediately at first, it just screamed like a phoenix cry resounding in the long halls.

Metal ripping from plaster, a cracking of support beams, a second of disbelief.

Then the anticipated crash,a thousand crystals splintered across the marble like the stars themselves had burst into pieces.

Gunfire then followed very sharp, brisk and final.

Twelve guards all died in seconds, their bodies crumpled like dolls, twisted and scattered across the hallway haphazardly, like an afterthought, displaying a gallery of red.

One man screamed, followed quickly by haunting silence,

Her legs took off, leaving her brain to its state of shock, she didn't remember screaming, but her throat was raw afterward.

She didn't remember crying, but her eyes wouldn't stop burning. Maybe it was smoke or perhaps the blood on the walls, on the floor and on her ninja costume.

Or was it the image of men in black masks burned into her retina, as they stormed through the vestibule with military precision,no mercy in their movement and action.

She slipped through the old servants' corridor behind the wine cellar, past the dumbwaiter, and up through the hidden stairwell she used as a child to sneak chocolates from the kitchens.

Continually running on instinct, her breath loud in her ears, heart punching against her ribs.

She knew where she had to go, the safe heaven she was taught to escape to in times of trouble.

The walls closed in on her, and every turn of the corridor felt smaller, darker.

Somewhere above, the fire alarm had begun to wail, a shrill cry swallowed by chaos.

But by the time she burst into the study, it was already burning.

Smoke curled around the walls like fingers, dragging themselves across oil paintings, flames licked at the bookshelves, and the Persian rug was already smoldering.

Don Silvano lay on his back beside his desk, his white shirt soaking red.

The Persian rug beneath him had absorbed so much blood it looked almost black.

She collapsed beside him.

"Papa" she whispered, the word nearly breaking her,

His eyes fluttered as his lips barely moved, his blood bubbled at their corners.

"They came... for it," he rasped. "It's the La Rosa Nera... it's real, Vespa... hidden"

His breath hitched, she pressed her pale hand against the wound, but it was useless.

He was beyond the point of salvation, her fingers dyed in a glaring shade of crimson.

"You and your brother... only the two of you... are of....my blood....get the flower"

His hand trembled as he reached for hers. She took it, held it tight, refusing to let go.

"Papà please be fine, don't die on me, she pleaded her eyes heavy with tears,

You're all I have left papà, don't betray me like this or you'll be marked a traitor....

You..h...have...Alessan..dro...your..brother find him...don't let me dow..n, he says amidst mouthfuls of blood, as a hot tear slid down the side of his eye,

She collapsed beside him. "Papà," she whispered, the word nearly breaking her.

His eyelids fluttered. His lips moved, but barely.

"They came... for it," he rasped. "It's the La Rosa Nera... it's real, Vespa... hidden..."

"In the haze of firelight and smoke, he whispered one last time, "Don't let the flower fall into the wrong hands..."

And then he went still.

The room roared around her, flames crackling like applause for death. The bookshelf collapsed.

A beam groaned above. She screamed this time she remembered it, the sound came from somewhere feral.

She dragged his body out of the study, as she pulled him through the halls that once echoed with her laughter, now slick with blood.

She didn't stop until the fire pushed her back, until smoke choked her lungs and her eyes stung from grief and ash.

Outside, night had fallen.

The garden statues cast long shadows, broken and leaning as if mourning with her.

The orange glow of the fire made the roses look like they were bleeding.

The estate burned behind her, silhouetted against the black sky like a sinking cathedral.

And she knew in that moment everything had changed.......

*********************

The sound of footsteps snapped her out of the memory.

Back in the trench, beneath the city where the air still reeked, and the velvet cushion was soaked through.

She blinked. Her body ached from being still so long. She didn't turn her head, not yet.

The footsteps were familiar slow, precise, with a surgeon's calm.

A man stepped into view clean shoes, and a surgical bag in hand.

"Vespa," he said softly.

She looked up.

He didn't flinch at her face, gaunt and ghostly. He had seen it before both what she had been and what she would become.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Her lips parted, cracked and silent.

Then, finally, her voice returned, cold yet certain.

"No," she whispered. "But I'm doing it anyway."