The Ice Princess of Fifth Avenue
The Wolf in the Rain
Location: Lower Manhattan, Two Hours Later
The city never really slept. Not here.
It bled under neon lights and rain-slicked streets, yawning with the teeth of subway grates and alley mouths. It exhaled smoke and cheap perfume. It watched from windows behind rusted bars and cracked blinds.
Nicolo Bianchi moved through it like a man born from its bones.
The cigarette between his teeth burned slow and steady beneath the shelter of his hood. Black jacket. Black gloves. Black stare beneath the brim pulled low. He wasn’t hard to notice if you knew how to look.
But smart men didn’t look. Not at him. Not twice.
Not if they wanted to keep breathing.
The photo had been traced fast — faster than whoever sent it thought possible. They weren’t careful. Amateurs. Flash-and-run creeps trying to make their bones by poking the wrong queen.
He’d found the camera’s location by noon. A rooftop. Obvious. Predictable. Too exposed to be professional. Which meant desperate. Desperate men made mistakes.
Like thinking distance would keep them safe from the wolves.
He crushed the cigarette beneath his boot when he reached the door. A rusted maintenance stairwell, padlock broken — recent, fresh scratch marks. They’d moved quick but sloppy. Didn’t expect anyone following this soon.
Up three flights. Quiet. Controlled. A shadow stitched to concrete.
The rooftop stank of wet tar and old piss. Wind clawed at his coat. Beyond it, Manhattan sprawled in muted hunger. Across the roof’s far corner: a figure. Male. Late twenties. Thin, twitchy. Camera gear half-packed, half-abandoned in a duffel at his feet. He was watching the Valtieri building through a long-range lens, posture tense, breath fogging the night air.
Nicolo let the door shut behind him loud enough to announce presence.
Fear widened his eyes before bravado tightened his mouth.
Photographer
Who the fuck—?
Nicolo didn’t answer with words.
He crossed the space between them like violence given shape, fist snapping out to catch the man across the jaw hard enough to split lip from teeth. The camera clattered. The duffel kicked sideways.
The man hit the gravel coughing blood into the rain.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
You don’t know who you’re working for.
Nicolo’s voice stayed soft. Cold.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
That’s mistake number one.
Photographer
Fuck you, old man.
Nicolo crouched beside him. No rush. No wasted breath.
Gloved fingers gripped hair, yanked the head back just enough to meet his gaze.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
You’re going to tell me who paid you.
Photographer
Or what? You’ll hit me again?
The bravado cracked beneath the tremble.
Photographer
You don’t look like cops.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
We’re not.
Nicolo smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
We’re worse.
The man tried to scramble backward. Too slow. Nicolo pinned him easy, knee pressing down on ribs until something popped beneath the weight.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
You took photos of my boss.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
You followed her people. You sent threats. That’s mistake number two.
Rain hit harder. Or maybe that was just the blood leaking from the man’s busted lip now.
Photographer
I don’t— I didn’t know— I just take the shot, man! They paid for shots, not— not this—!
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
Names.
Photographer
No names! Just a number— a text drop— I don’t know who!
Nicolo let him wheeze for a breath. Let the panic settle like poison.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
Where.
The man’s shaking hand fumbled toward his jacket. Nicolo didn’t move. Watched. Waited. Saw the burner phone dragged free like a confession.
Photographer
Last text. Meet. Pay. That’s all I got. That’s all, man—
The address lit on the screen between them. Warehouse district. South docks. Midnight.
Nicolo stood. The man whimpered.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
You won’t tell anyone about this meeting.
Nicolo’s hand flexed once, like testing the strength of his own patience.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
Because you won’t be able to speak for a week.
Photographer
No, no, man—wait—
The kick took teeth. The second broke ribs.
The man stopped talking.
Nicolo cleaned his gloves on the corner of the duffel. Took the burner. Took the camera’s memory card. Left the rest. Let him live. Not out of mercy. Out of message.
He lit another cigarette as he walked back to the stairwell.
Dialed Celeste before the flame burned out.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
Warehouse district. South docks. Midnight.
A pause. The ghost of smoke between his teeth.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
They’re bolder than smart. I’ll clean it up.
Her voice on the other end of the line?
Calm. Cold. Like ice cracking over a lake of knives.
Celeste Valtieri
Good. Don’t waste bullets on worms.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
I won’t.
A flick of ash into the dark.
Nicolo Vittore Bianchi
Not unless they bleed easy.
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