Page 118 of Iron Roses

The street tightens.

There’s no shoulder. Construction debris lines the edges. Metal barrels. Broken signs. The car rattles when the wheel dips into a trench.

I keep the blade in my lap. My right leg trembles each time I press the gas, not from fear but from the tremor that’s been climbing since the fire. My feet stick to the pedals—skin torn, blood drying.

A figure darts across the road up ahead. Fausto swerves. The silhouette stumbles and falls into the gravel. He gains speed. The road curves into a blind bend.

He takes it wide. I cut close. The passenger door scrapes a concrete barrier—paint peels. Sparks fly.

My grip holds. I adjust without thinking. The docks come into view. His brake lights stutter once.

Steel fencing lines the edge. Beyond that—water. Shipping cranes. A row of warehouses slouched low against the sky.

His car slams to a stop near a rusted security gate. He leaves it running. Door flung open.

His coat flies behind him as he runs.

I slow just enough to keep control. The tires scream once, the rear end sliding before it corrects. The car comes to a full stop ten yards behind his.

He’s halfway across the lot. A boat waits at the end of the pier. Running lights flicker.

I reach for the handle. The door doesn’t open at first. My shoulder hits it once. It pops.

The night air hits hard. Gravel shifts underfoot. Each step scrapes the shredded skin of my feet raw again. My grip tightens around the knife. The hilt presses into bone where my fingers lock.

Giovanna steps out beside me, she turns to me.

“Get him,” she says.

Fausto is almost on the boat when my feet strike the dock.

He hears me.

His head turns—just enough to catch me coming.

The blade rises, but he’s faster. His forearm knocks mine aside. The knife swings wide and misses his ribs. I stumble forward and he grabs the back of my shirt, yanking me down.

My knees crash against the dock. The jolt tears fresh skin open.

He steps over me and kicks.

The heel lands between my ribs.

Bone shifts. My body folds sideways. I push up, one arm shaking.

Another kick lands at my thigh. The edge of his boot digs into burned skin. Fire shoots up my leg. I grit my teeth.

He kneels, one knee pressing into my shoulder, pinning me flat. His fingers curl into my hair and yank my head back.

“I should’ve cut the tongue out of you when I had the chance.”

My elbow strikes his side—low, sharp. He grunts but doesn’t release. I roll, trying to break his weight off me. He punches the side of my jaw.

Something hot floods behind my eyes. He punches again.

My cheek hits the dock. The wood is slick with something wet. I taste blood.

He leans in close. His breath hits my temple.

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