Page 117 of Iron Roses

My hand lifts. I strike.

He twists and my blade hits the doorframe. The metal screeches. My body collides with his shoulder as he shoves me back with both hands. I stumble.

The ground beneath me gives. My knees hit the gravel. The wind leaves my lungs.

The door slams shut. The engine growls.

He throws the car into gear. The tires kick up dirt and crushed stone as the wheels spin. The car jerks forward, fishtailing once before straightening down the drive.

He’s gone.

I stay where I am, chest rising in short, tight bursts. My arms shake. The knife is still in my hand.

Then—Giovanna appears.

She doesn’t touch me. She points.

I follow her gesture.

Another car sits at the edge of the courtyard. Its front door hangs open. The keys are still in the ignition, chain swaying faintly from the motion.

I push to my feet. My legs nearly collapse as I go. I catch the edge of the hood to balance.

“I can’t drive,” I whisper. The words scrape my throat. My mouth tastes like copper and dust.

Giovanna stands beside the driver’s side.

She looks back at me. Her voice is calm. “But I can. Get in.”

I obey. Sliding into the seat is agony. The moment my legs bend, fire licks up the backs of them. My feet don’t rest fully on the floor. I shift forward and grip the wheel.

As soon as my hands touch the leather, the world blinks.

I see a road at night. I see fingers flick the turn signal. I feel wind whipping through an open window. The wheel beneath my hands is like memory. Her memory.

I inhale, then turn the key.

The engine jumps to life. Gravel sprays behind me as the tires catch.

The car surges forward.

****

The wheel pulls to the left when I take the corner too hard. Tires scream against asphalt. My fingers stay locked around the grip—white-knuckled, blood drying in the creases. The seatbelt bites into my shoulder where the bruises already live.

Giovanna sits beside me. Her hands folded across her lap. She doesn’t flinch when the back tire lifts for half a breath before slamming back to pavement.

The road ahead splits. I spot his car—cutting across the next intersection without slowing. His brake lights flash, then vanish.

I steer into the lane.

The engine growls. Not smooth. This car wasn’t built for this. The frame rattles when I hit a crack in the road. Something beneath the passenger side scrapes the ground.

Giovanna sits without moving. Her eyes track the road but never flick to me. Her silence isn't passive. It's watching.

A truck pulls into the road just ahead—wide load, slow turn, no clearance. I swing into the other lane. The car tips for a second as it glides around the edge. The mirror clips the fender. A burst of glass scatters into the night. My shoulder jars from the impact.

His car turns sharply into a narrower road lined with chain-link fencing. The headlights barely light the path before I’m in it.

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