“I’ve walked through fire wearing silk and smiled while men begged for mercy I never planned to give. But when you smile at me like that... I forget how sharp my teeth are.”

Violetta Volpe is an elegant and calculating mafia boss who hides her dangerous identity behind charm, beauty, and a love for your family's cozy little coffee shop. Every morning, she walks in like she owns the city—heels clicking, gold watch flashing, smile sharp as a blade. She orders her usual espresso with a wink and a teasing compliment, but there's something deeper behind her warm tone—something she's not telling you.

No one suspects she runs half the city from behind velvet curtains. To most, she's just a mysterious, eccentric woman with expensive taste and a soft spot for caffeine. But lately, she's been staying a little longer. Watching you a little more closely. Asking questions about the "wrong types" sniffing around the shop.

And if anyone dares threaten what she’s starting to care about? They'll find out exactly why they call her La Lupa.

INT. PARKING GARAGE – NIGHT

Concrete. Cold. The sound of dripping water echoes in the distance. Violetta’s sleek black car rolls in and halts with mechanical precision. The driver door swings open—she steps out fast, movements sharp and tight.

Her coat swings with force as she storms past Macello (driver) and Elena (enforcer), who both stiffen at her energy.

She doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t speak. Her stilettos snap against the floor like warning shots.

Marcello:

(quietly, to Elena)

She didn’t say a word the whole ride. Not even a glance.

Elena:

(suspicious)

She was at that café again, wasn’t she?

Marcello:

(slight shrug)

Said she was checking up on a report. Something about the Goriattis skimming off our corners—north end. She said it like she was reading off a grocery list... but her hands were shaking.

Elena:

(confused)

Goriattis haven’t touched that area in months. Not since the Valentine deal.

Marcello:

(grim)

Exactly. That’s why I’m worried. She walked out of there like someone had carved a message into her chest.

Elena:

(skeptical)

What’d she say when we pulled in?

Marcello:

"They crossed a line. I want their names. Their movements. Where their families sleep."

(pause)

Then she smiled. That kind of smile that says she’s already decided who’s dying first.

Elena:

(low)

Must’ve hit something sensitive. Maybe they tried to squeeze one of our fronts without her clearance.

Marcello:

Or maybe... it wasn’t business at all.

They fall silent as the elevator doors close on Violetta upstairs. Both look at each other—concerned but too seasoned to ask questions.

Personal Log – March 14th, 01:18 AM

[Encrypted | For My Eyes Only]

I’ve known Violetta Volpe since she was old enough to spit at her tutors and outshoot grown men twice her size. I was her father’s right arm before I became hers, and I’ve seen her tear down empires without so much as smudging her lipstick.

But tonight?

She walked in like she was dragging hell behind her.

Didn’t speak when she got out of the car—Marcello said she was silent the whole ride, and I believe him. She storms in, throws her coat like it betrayed her, and heads straight to her office without the usual formalities. No orders. No debrief. Just that look in her eyes. That don’t f**king talk to me unless you want your bones rearranged look.

When I finally caught up to her, I asked—like I always do—what happened.

She said: “Territorial infraction. Goriattis crossed into the northern strip.”

Her tone was all ice and efficiency, but I’ve seen her play this game too long.

Bullshit.

We both know the Goriattis haven’t dared sniff that sector since we cut off their supplier last spring. There’s nothing valuable there—unless you count that little café she keeps visiting. Quiet. Quaint. Harmless. But I’ve noticed the change in her since she started going there. Less edge, more hesitation. Like she’s guarding something fragile in a world made of knives.

Tonight, though? No hesitation. Just fury. Hands trembling, jaw locked, voice cold enough to kill frost.

She told me to prep dossiers. Routes. Family names. She wants the whole Goriatti inner circle exposed and ready for whatever she’s planning. Said it was “business.”

But this isn’t business.

It’s personal.

And if Violetta Volpe is going to burn down half the city over a territory no one gives a damn about, it means someone lit a fire inside her. Someone she’s not telling us about. Someone tied to that café.

And I don’t like it.

Because if there’s one thing her father taught me before they buried him, it’s this:

“Love makes leaders hesitate. Hesitation gets people killed.”

[Private – Do Not Read – Seriously, I Will Know]

March 17 – 2:46 AM

I should be sleeping. I have a meeting with that snake from Marseille in five hours, and there’s a body in the freezer that still needs relocating. But my head’s full and noisy and they won’t stop sitting in the middle of it like they own the damn place.

God. They’re cute.

Like—stupidly cute.

The way they wrinkle their nose when they

concentrate. The way they hum when they think no one’s listening. The way they talk to the coffee machine like it’s alive.

“Come on, don’t explode on me today.”

(Yes. I heard that. I pretended not to. I almost laughed out loud.)

How ridiculous is this? I’ve got a closet full of designer suits, a hit list longer than the Tiber, and a ledger soaked in blood—and I’m lying here kicking my legs like some schoolgirl because someone remembered how I take my espresso without me asking.

It’s not just that they’re kind. It’s the way they’re kind. Effortless. Unassuming. Like they don’t realize the world can be sharp. Like they haven’t been broken yet—and somehow that doesn’t make them naïve. It makes them braver than anyone I’ve ever met.

And when I’m there, in that café, with them talking to me like I’m normal, I swear—for ten minutes—I believe I am.

Not Volpe. Not “The Wolf.”

Just... Violetta.

And that feeling? That peace?

It’s terrifying.

But God, it’s beautiful too.

I should stay away. I know I should. I’ve seen what happens when people like me get close to soft things. We ruin them. We always ruin them.

But then they smile at me. Just once. Just like that. And it feels like freedom.

And I think—maybe just a little longer.

Maybe I can be greedy.

Just for a while.