Chapter 2 - Ten Thousand Black Roses in the Dead of Night
The morning light did nothing to wash away the terror of the previous night.
Sadie was awake before dawn, her broom and dustpan working in frantic, mechanical rhythms as she cleared the last speck of shattered glass from the kitchen floor. Her hands were shaking so hard that the metal edge clattered against the stone. Every shadow looked like Roman Costa looming over her; every floorboard groan sounded like his deliberate, lethal footsteps.
By eight in the morning, the rest of the household staff had filtered into the service wing. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable—a woman whose face seemed permanently carved from sour granite—narrowed her eyes at Sadie’s pale complexion.
“You look like you’ve seen the devil himself, girl,” Mrs. Gable snapped, slamming a crate of silver polish onto the counter. “Pull yourself together. We have guests tonight. The Don’s caporegimes are arriving from Brooklyn. If the silver isn't spotless, it won't just be your job on the line.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Sadie whispered, keeping her eyes glued to the floor.
She worked like a ghost, moving from room to room, wiping down banisters, polishing priceless Renaissance paintings, and vacuuming heavy Persian rugs that muffled every sound. But no matter what she did, she couldn't shake the phantom smell of bergamot and cigar smoke.
At precisely ten o’clock, the service bell at the back gate rang.
Sadie’s stomach plummeted into a cold, bottomless pit. She was in the pantry organizing dry goods when she heard the rumble of an engine outside. Not the rattling, sputtering clatter of Toby’s beat-up Ford van, but the smooth, deep hum of an industrial transport truck.
Unable to stop herself, she peeked through the high, barred window of the pantry.
A massive black commercial flatbed truck had parked in the rear courtyard. Two men wearing crisp, dark uniforms—not bakery delivery boys, but stone-faced mafia enforcers with bulging holsters beneath their jackets—stepped out of the cab.
Marco, Roman’s ruthless right-hand man, was already waiting for them by the loading dock, a clipboard in his hand and an unreadable expression on his scarred face.
“Unload it,” Marco ordered, his voice carrying clearly across the stone yard. “Every single one goes inside. The boss’s orders.”
Sadie watched in absolute bewilderment as the rear rolling door of the truck flew open.
Inside was a sea of black.
Towering, custom-built crystal vases held thousands upon thousands of jet-black, velvety roses—rare Black Baccara blossoms, imported fresh, with morning dew still glistening on their razor-sharp thorns. There were so many that the courtyard air instantly shifted, thick and suffocating with the sweet, intoxicating scent of dark velvet petals.
The men began hauling the heavy crystal urns inside, two by two. They carried them through the service entrance, marching past Sadie’s hiding spot with grim, militaristic precision.
“What is going on?” Mrs. Gable muttered, emerging into the hall with her hands pressed to her cheeks. “Who ordered this? Is there a funeral? Nobody told me about a funeral!”
Marco stepped into the pantry hallway, his cold eyes landing directly on Sadie. He didn't say a word to Mrs. Gable. Instead, he pulled a handwritten card embossed with heavy gold foil from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the silver tray in front of Sadie.
“Boss said this is your department,” Marco said flatly. “Set them up wherever you want. Except his study. You know better.”
Sadie’s fingers trembled as she picked up the card. The heavy, expensive stock smelled faintly of bergamot and fine bourbon. In sharp, aggressive strokes of black ink, Roman’s handwriting cut across the paper:
*If you want flowers, you will look at mine. If you want a garden, I will bury you in one. Never accept another man’s scraps.*
Sadie dropped the card back onto the tray as if it were on fire.
By noon, the Costa estate had been transformed into a macabre, breathtaking greenhouse. Every table, every alcove, every mantelpiece groaned under the weight of massive crystal urns filled with deep crimson and pitch-black roses. The house smelled entirely of luxury, passion, and implicit violence.
The other maids whispered frantically among themselves in the laundry room, their eyes wide with fear and envy.
“Has Don Roman lost his mind?” one whispered. “Ten thousand roses? Who are they for? Is he marrying the Bonetti girl?”
“No,” another muttered, glancing nervously toward the doorway where Sadie stood folding linens. “Marco said the delivery was cleared directly by the boss. For a personal matter.”
Sadie kept her mouth shut and folded the sheets with trembling precision. She felt trapped. What Roman had done was not a romantic gesture; it was a territorial claim. It was an apex predator marking the boundaries of his cage. He had seen a cheap three-dollar bouquet and crushed it, only to replace it with a fortune in black roses to prove that even her simple desires belonged entirely to him.
The terror peaked at seven that evening.
The heavy iron gates opened, and a caravan of black luxury sedans snaked up the private driveway. Men in tailored Italian suits, with cold eyes and bulges under their armpits, filed into the main dining hall. These were the high-ranking capos of the Five Families, men who ruled the underground with an iron fist.
Sadie was assigned to serve the dessert cart. Her uniform was pristine, her hair pulled back into that same tight, joyless knot.
When she pushed the heavy brass cart into the dining hall, the room went dead silent.
The long mahogany table was dominated by Roman Costa sitting at the head. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal-three-piece suit, his crisp white shirt open at the throat, exuding the effortless, terrifying dominance of a king among wolves.
As Sadie entered, Roman didn't look at his lieutenants. He didn't look at the map of shipping routes spread out across the table. His dark, piercing gaze locked onto Sadie the second she crossed the threshold.
One of the older capos, Don Vincente from Brooklyn, chuckled darkly, tapping his cigar against a crystal ashtray. “Impressive decor, Roman. Looks like a wake for a king. What’s the occasion? Did we finally put down the Moretti syndicate?”
Roman took a slow sip of his aged Scotch, never breaking eye contact with Sadie as she wheeled the cart toward the table.
“No,” Roman replied, his voice a low, rumbling threat that sent chills down the spines of the killers in the room. “It’s just a reminder. To everyone in this city, and everyone under this roof. What is mine stays mine. And if anyone tries to touch what I’ve claimed, I won’t just take their business. I’ll burn everything they love to the ground.”
Sadie’s hand slipped, the silver tongs rattling loudly against the china.
May you like
Roman’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk.
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