Page 21 of Iron Roses

He always does.

Lorenzo sighs and shifts his coat. “I’ll see you later,” he mutters, and turns down the hallway.

His footsteps echo once before fading.

I lean both hands on the balcony ledge, palms pressed to stone. The wind drags the scent of rosemary and rain up from the garden.

What will I do when she finds out?

Giovanna had written her a letter before she came to me. Only a letter. She left the estate like she was going away for the season—Florence, maybe. Said she’d married a man chosen by the family. Said it would all make sense in time.

“She’s too young to understand,” she told me once, curled beside me in bed, breathing softly against my throat. “I’ll explain everything to her when she’s older.”

But that never happened.

How would she react if she knew the truth?

Chapter Five – Dante

The trees are thick this far out. Pines—old, dry, crowded too close together. The ground is soft, all needles and rot. No lights. No moon. Just the faint crunch of Fausto’s boots arriving half a minute late.

He never changes. Always just late enough to remind me he doesn’t answer to anyone.

I stay where I am, hands in my coat pockets, eyes fixed ahead.

He steps into the clearing like he owns it.

“We can’t be seen together,” I say. “Don’t waste my time. What do you want?”

He smiles. That smug, careless curve of the mouth I’ve seen a thousand times over a glass of whiskey or a man’s grave.

“Why the hurry, brother?” he says. “We’re partners, aren’t we?”

The word turns my stomach.

I look at him fully now. His coat tailored, but he hasn’t shaved. He smells faintly of tobacco and old oil, like the inside of an engine that still runs on lies.

“Was it you?” I ask. “Who ratted out Oreste to the other families?”

Fausto’s smile deepens. “You’re sharp. Or maybe you’re just a rat yourself too. But yes—you’re right. It was me.” He chuckles. “Don’t look at me like that. This is our plan.”

I step forward once. Not far, just enough to feel my feet settle harder into the earth.

“You had your half-brother killed like a mule.”

“And you,” he says, voice light, “had no issue when I helped you kill my brother’s daughter like a mule—when it suited you.”

My jaw locks. The breath I take is measured. Not because I disagree, but because I don’t like hearing it aloud.

“She was making him weak.”

Giovanna, his lover. A union that my brother found to be a headache. Cassian, bound to one sister, chooses the other, and lets her make him weak.

My brother died a few months after the girl moved in and I knew I had to make my move. Fausto helped me plan the assassination.

He and I had our partnerships. Nothing serious. He was just a man for a dirty job.

“That’s why I summoned you,” Fausto says. He leans against a tree like it’s a bar stool. “My brother’s last daughter. Elaria.”

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