The Mafia's Vengeful Queen

Revenge had a scent. For Tatiana, it was old newspaper ink, fading cologne on a pressed suit, and the sterile cold of a morgue.

Her father's ghost lived in these walls. So did her purpose.

Inside her apartment, Tatiana's eyes are glued to the wall in front of her. The morning light filtering through her half-closed blinds cast the wall of evidence in a golden glow—photos, newspaper articles, business records, and surveillance shots—all connected with angry red thread.

Tatiana's apartment was small but strategically located. Close enough to monitor De Luca territory but far enough to stay unnoticed. 

She extended her fingers to trace the edge of a faded photograph, her heart clenching at the sight of her father's smile. Alessandro Moretti who once feared and respected is now reduced to only newspaper clippings and whispered legends.

Fifteen years of planning. Fifteen years of waiting. Fifteen years of rage burning like acid in her veins.

She plucked a more recent photo from the collection. Massimiliano De Luca exiting his Bentley, face carved from marble, eyes cold as winter. The son of the man who'd murdered her father.

Massimiliano De Luca, 34. Only son and heir to Lorenzo De Luca. Runs the family's legitimate businesses and most of the illegitimate ones too. Cold, calculated, disciplined. Trust issues. Control freak. Weakness for beautiful women, but never keeps them around. No real attachments except to his father. Trusts his instincts above all else.

As she gazed at the photograph, her mind wandered…I figured he'd notice me eventually... just not this soon. He's sharper than I gave him credit for.

That made him dangerous. It also made him the perfect gateway to destroying Lorenzo De Luca, the man who had betrayed her father and stolen everything from her family.

She turned to face the full length mirror hanging on the other side of the wall. Tonight she had dressed carefully for her shift at Nocturne.

She had picked a black silk blouse and high-waisted slacks that accentuated her curves without being obvious about it. Professional enough for a high-end bartender, alluring enough to keep men's attention without inviting too much of it.

Time to see how far I can push.

––––––––––

Nocturne hummed with quiet conversation and carefully controlled power plays. As Tatiana arranged bottles behind the bar, her senses remained hyperaware of everything.

Private security stood at strategic points. Wait staff moved like ghosts.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan sparkled sixty floors below, oblivious to the monsters who ruled its shadows from this gilded perch.

Massimiliano arrived precisely at ten, flanked by Antonio and two newer guards Tatiana hadn't yet identified. His eyes swept the room in a practiced scan — calculating threats, opportunities and possible changes from the established order. 

When his gaze landed on her behind the bar, he gave nothing away. But she caught the pause in his stride.

He proceeded to his usual corner booth where five men already waited. The Constantini family representatives. She had recognised them. Old Italian money trying to establish stronger footholds in New York.

The meeting had been in her files for weeks.

Yet she knew with absolute certainty that even if this meeting weren't scheduled, he would have come anyway. She'd gotten under his skin last night.

Good.

The thought sent a thrill of satisfaction through her that she couldn't quite suppress.

From behind the bar, Tatiana stole secret glances at him as he worked, filing his movements into her memory.

She noticed that he never raised his voice. Never made grand gestures.

She noted that his power was in his stillness, in the way men twice his age leaned forward to catch his words. Cold, controlled charisma, like a snake charmer who was himself a snake.

She couldn't help but to feel slightly impressed.

She continued on with her tasks unassumingly. Mixing drinks with efficiency, never lingering with customers, never drawing attention. Professional, detached. The perfect employee. While she pretended not to notice, she could feel his eyes tracking her movements between points in his conversations.

An hour into his meeting, Massimiliano raised his hand; a small, commanding gesture as his eyes found hers across the room.

A summons.

She nodded once and retrieved his bottle of Yamazaki 18 Year Old, the one he kept on reserve at Nocturne, its label discreetly marked with his name, amongst many other bottles. A Japanese single malt, impossibly smooth and notoriously rare. It had been crafted in limited batches and aged to perfection. It carried the depth of dried fruit, dark chocolate, and a whisper of Mizunara oak, a flavor both refined and complex, just like the man who drank it.

As she approached his table, the conversations died instantly as if to keep their secrets from reaching the wrong ears. Five pairs of eyes tracking her movements like predators assessing potential prey.

"Gentlemen," she said, voice professional with just enough warmth to be appropriate. She placed fresh glasses before each man, then poured with the precision of someone who understood the value of what she served.

"Please." Massimiliano's voice was casual, but his eyes burned into hers with an intensity that made her pulse jump.

Tatiana met his gaze, giving him nothing as she poured two perfect fingers of amber liquid. No flinch, no flutter of lashes, no hint of the hatred burning beneath her carefully constructed facade.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. De Luca?" She kept her tone neutral, but knew the formality would irritate him after yesterday's boldness. A calculated shift.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not at the moment."

She nodded and stepped back, feeling the weight of his gaze as she returned to the bar.

Let him look. Let him wonder.