Page 10 of Iron Roses

He’s reminding me.

Dante inclines his head.

“I’ll handle the network,” he says. “You handle the perimeter.”

He turns toward the door and leaves. The paper remains untouched.

The study returns to silence. I stand and I walk to the wall. A narrow seam splits the paneling beside the display case. I press into the carved ridge beneath the rivet—a design most think ornamental. A soft metallic click answers. The stone behind the panel shifts open.

Beyond it, a staircase descends in a spiral. The walls are limestone, unpolished, still marked by the trowel.

At the bottom, the passage narrows before opening into the chamber.

The room is long and narrow, shaped like a chapel. The ceiling curves high above, painted in deep blue with worn frescoes bleeding into the plaster. Saints line the arches, but none smile. Each holds something—sword, scroll, dagger, flame.

The sconces are forged iron, twisted into the shape of thorns. Each holds a candle, burning low. No natural light touches this place.

At the center of the room stands the altar.

Carrara marble. Veined with red. Cut square and unadorned, except for the symbol carved into the center: two rings, interlocked, crossed by a blade. The front face is stained—darkened from where blood was absorbed into the grain. The cloth draped over it is black linen, worn thin at the corners. A single rosary lies coiled near the base, each bead the color of bone.

Along the far wall, the portraits begin.

Five frames hang in even rows. Each one lit by a candle set beneath it. No glass. Just canvas and gold-leaf trim. All of her.

In one, she stands in profile, hair pinned with a pearl comb. In another, she’s seated, hands folded in her lap, eyes locked on the painter. Her mouth is slightly parted, as if she was about to speak.

The last is different. She faces forward. One hand rests on her stomach. The other hangs loose by her side. The background fades into dark crimson. There is no smile in this one.

I approach the altar.

The surface is smooth, but the center bears the faint pattern of a bond sealed here.

I remember her hand pressing into mine. Her skin was warm that night. Her fingers were steady.

She held the blade first. A cut across her palm, the blood rising.

I matched it. Pressed steel to skin and opened a line across my own.

We turned our hands together and let the blood drip onto the altar.

She leaned forward until her forehead met mine.

“Say it,” she whispered.

I smile. “I love you, Giovanna.”

I pressed our palms together and watched the blood mix in the space between us.

She closed her eyes and smiled.

“Now you’re mine. Even in the dark.”

We left our prints on the marble. Her thumbprint overlapped mine.

It never faded.

I lower my hand to the altar now. Press my palm against the stone where the stain begins.

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