Anna Ricci was easy to find.
Killian had her schedule like it was printed on the back of his hand. Mondays she did yoga in Trastevere, Tuesdays she had coffee at the same spot near Campo de' Fiori—oat milk latte, gluten-free croissant, sunglasses too big for her face, like she was trying to hide behind fashion.
Rosa watched her for three days straight. Never approached. Just sat close enough to listen. See the twitch in her eye when someone mentioned "donations," or the way her fingers trembled when she typed in the passcode to her phone. Guilt leaves stains. And Anna was covered in them.
Killian said she was already singing—but Rosa didn't want half notes. She wanted the full damn melody.
So on Thursday morning, Rosa walked up, ordered the same oat milk latte, and sat right across from her. No invitation. Just vibes.
Anna blinked at her, confused. "Do I know you?"
"No," Rosa said, smiling. "But I know you."
The café was loud, but not enough to drown out the fear creeping into Anna's bones.
"You work with the Mancinis," Rosa said, stirring her coffee slow. "Charity director. The face of kindness and laundering."
Anna's throat bobbed. She looked around. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Rosa leaned forward, voice low. "I'm the one who leaked the Vatican video."
Anna went still.
"I've got more," Rosa continued. "But I'd rather not use them. I'd rather use you."
Anna opened her mouth—maybe to deny, maybe to scream—but Rosa slid a flash drive across the table. "On here? Every transfer you made to that offshore account. I have the receipts. And if I have them, you better believe others can too. Journalists love a scandal. You'll be front-page by sundown if I press go."
Anna's hands trembled. "What do you want from me?"
"Everything Lorenzo doesn't want me to know."
They met again that night. Quiet, underground bar near the river. No one important went there. Just the broken, the burnt-out, the ones trying to forget. Perfect.
Anna came with a laptop. And shaking hands. She ordered tequila. No salt. No lime. Just pain.
Rosa sat across, legs crossed, notepad in hand. She wasn't here to drink. She was here to destroy.
"What do you want first?" Anna whispered. "Names? Accounts? Or the secrets?"
Rosa smiled. "Let's start with secrets."
Turns out, Anna knew plenty.
Lorenzo's empire wasn't just inherited. He built pieces of it—ugly ones. Bribes. Fake charities. Ghost companies in countries nobody could find on a map. And every cent came back clean, polished, dressed up like innocence.
"He used the orphanage fund," Anna said, voice breaking. "He bought a yacht with it."
Rosa didn't flinch. "What else?"
"His cousin—Franco—he handles shipments. Arms. Pills. Women."
That one made Rosa grip the glass too hard.
"And the real estate deals? They're fake. Just a front. But the buyers? Politicians. Church leaders. Judges. Everyone's in on it."
Rosa exhaled. It was worse than she imagined.
But it was good.
The deeper the rot, the easier it is to pull out the roots.
By morning, she had enough dirt to bury the Mancinis under ten lifetimes of scandal. But she didn't move yet. Not just yet.
She needed more. Not data. Emotion.
She needed Lorenzo to feel it.
So she posted another leak. But small this time. A whisper, not a scream. A financial document with half the names blurred. Just enough to stir panic. Let the boardroom boil.
And it worked.
That afternoon, Lorenzo fired three of his staff. Publicly. Loudly. Like a man trying to convince everyone he was still in control.
But Rosa saw it. The cracks.
He was slipping.
Killian came by that night. Brought Chinese takeout and a look in his eyes that said we're getting close.
"You sure about this path?" he asked, mouth full of noodles. "You could walk away right now. Disappear again. Change your name, buy a villa in Spain. Let the world burn without you."
Rosa shook her head. "I didn't crawl outta the grave to run."
He nodded. "Good. Because Lorenzo just hired someone."
She looked up.
"Ex-special forces. Black ops. No name. Just a ghost. He's not playing anymore."
Rosa cracked her knuckles. "Neither am I."
She didn't sleep again that night. Sleep was for the innocent. She was too far gone for dreams.
Instead, she pulled out old photos. Back when life was simple. Back when she thought Lorenzo was just a man, not a monster.
She burned one. The wedding picture.
Watched the flames curl around her own smiling face.
That version of her was dead.
TWO DAYS LATER – MANCINI'S PENTHOUSE
Anna delivered the next piece: an invite.
Lorenzo was throwing a private fundraiser—cover for a deal with foreign investors. Rosa was going.
Killian tried to argue. "It's risky. They'll have eyes everywhere."
"I'm not going to hide," Rosa said, slipping on heels like armor. "I'm going to remind him who he's dealing with."
She walked into that penthouse like she was born there.
Hair slicked back. Black dress hugging every revenge-filled curve. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.
Lorenzo saw her within minutes.
He froze mid-conversation, drink in hand, mask slipping for just a second.
She moved through the crowd, untouched. Everyone noticed her. No one approached. She had the air of something dangerous. Something divine.
He met her near the balcony. Away from cameras.
"You don't belong here," he said.
She sipped her wine. "I built this place, remember?"
A pause. Wind brushing past.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Rosa."
"I'm not playing," she said. "You are. And you're losing."
He stepped closer. Looked into her like he was searching for something.
"I never meant to hurt you."
She laughed. Bitter. Beautiful. "Then you should've shot me when you had the chance."
That night, she didn't sleep either.
Too many memories. Too many ghosts.
But one thing became clear.
This wasn't about revenge anymore.
It was war.
And she was going to win.
Even if it killed her.