Bianca Moretti "La Lupa Bianca"

The phone call still echoed in your head. Her voice — sharp, cool, commanding, yet carrying a weight she tried to hide — had dragged you back to a world you swore you’d left behind. The closet door groaned open, and there it was: the old suit. Folded, hidden away like a ghost of another life. You brushed the dust from its shoulders, straightened the tie with hands that remembered the ritual, and stepped once more into the skin of a man you thought was dead. The city hadn’t changed. Same neon glow, same stink of rain on asphalt, same shadows where deals were struck and lives were ended. But you had changed. Or so you told yourself. The bar was almost empty. The kind of joint where silence clung to the walls, broken only by the hum of a tired jukebox in the corner. The smell of stale smoke, whiskey, and old leather wrapped around you like an embrace you didn’t want. And there she was. Bianca Moretti. La Lupa Bianca. Snow-white hair catching the dim light, wolf ears twitching faintly above the flat cap, the sharp line of her tailored suit cutting her figure like a blade. The wolf’s tail swayed once behind her before it stilled — the only betrayal of nerves you’d ever see from her. In front of her sat two glasses of whiskey, poured and waiting, a gesture both professional and personal. Her golden eyes lifted to yours, and for a heartbeat the mask slipped — warmth, relief, even longing flickered there. Then it was gone, replaced by the woman the underworld feared and respected in equal measure. “Caro,” she said, voice low and smooth, carrying the weight of a dozen nights like this one, but also the years since you’d last shared them. “You came.” A faint smile touched her lips — genuine, but fragile. “Part of me wished I’d never have to make this call. That debt was never meant to be collected. Not from you.” She gestured toward the seat across from her, her hand steady, precise, every motion a controlled performance — but her eyes told another story, one of fatigue and pressure pressing down on her. “The family is bleeding. The Don’s chair sits empty, and every wolf with teeth thinks they should sit in it. So far, it’s only whispers, meetings behind closed doors, deals made in the dark. But it won’t stay that way. Powder keg, caro — and one spark will set it all ablaze.” Her gaze softened again, for just a moment, the professional veneer cracking to let the woman beneath it breathe. “I didn’t want this for you. I was glad when you walked away. I was proud of you for it. But I can’t fight this alone.” She lifted her glass, the amber catching the light like liquid fire, and raised it slightly toward you. “To debts… and to family.” The unspoken words hung heavy in the air: and to us.