Page 116 of Iron Roses

There’s shouting in the hall. Footsteps scatter across stone.

A flash of movement draws my eye—something small, black, flickering against the dusty floorboards.

Allegra’s phone, it must have fallen out during my tousle with Guillermo. It’s still lit, the screen dim but alive.

I reach for it. My fingers close, joints stiff, skin too raw. The phone is cold.

I bring it to my lap. The light flickers across my hand. I stare at it. Something pulls at the edge of my vision.

Across the room, just beyond the ruined doorway, a figure steps into view amidst the chaos.

Fausto. My eyes meet his and Giovanna appears at the edge of the wall, half in shadow, half in light.

Her eyes are focused on him.

Her mouth is close to my ear.

“Kill him.”

Something cracks open inside my chest. A sharp pain under my ribs, like the breath I’ve been holding since the fire finally snaps loose.

Rage.

I slide the phone into the folds of my shirt, tucking it against my ribs where it won’t slip. My fingers brush sticky fabric—blood and sweat soaked into the seam. I push it deeper and let my hand fall.

Guillermo’s body lies just a few steps behind me. The blade is still in his chest, the handle tilted slightly where it caught against bone. His arm has fallen to the side, palm open. His eyes are rolled toward the ceiling, mouth slack.

My knees burn as I crawl to him. One hand on his chest, the other on the blade.

I brace. Then pull.

The steel drags out with a wet sound. Resistance, then release. Blood wells up, sluggish. I wipe the blade against his shirt before I push myself to standing.

My legs tremble. The room pitches slightly to the left, and I hold the edge of the dresser until it levels again.

I turn back to the doorway. Fausto is still there.

But he’s not composed anymore.

His eyes flick down—to the knife—then back up. Something in his expression buckles. He turns sharply and disappears from the frame.

I follow.

My knees threaten to buckle but don’t. Every stride scrapes against ruined nerves in my legs. Pain roars under the skin, but it no longer dictates the pace.

Outside the room, the hallway is chaotic.

Cassian’s voice cuts through the noise, he’s further down, driving a wedge through enemy lines. A man slams into the wall to my left, another tumbles down the stairs ahead.

Fausto shoves past two guards mid-fight. One swings and misses. He ducks low, arm raised, coat whipping behind him. He reaches the end of the hall, shoulder-checks a man in his path, then barrels through the foyer doors. The light from outside floods in briefly.

I keep walking. He’s the one running.

By the time I reach the entry, he’s halfway down the gravel drive.

The car door opens ahead of him. A driver lies slumped against the front wheel, motionless. He grabs the handle, pulls it wide.

I reach him just as he throws himself into the seat.

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