Page 37 of Iron Roses

“Why?” the older man sneers. “He was fucking her sister and insisted on getting married. He might want to play knight for his dead lover.”

A fist seems to close around my lungs.

Giovanna?

Cassian was—married to her?

No. That can’t be right.

But no one corrects him.

No one laughs like it’s a mistake.

My sister, the one whose perfume still clings to the edges of my memory, whose laughter I haven’t heard in years. Cassian… her Cassian?

My mind spins, but I stay still. Even now. Even when every part of me wants to scream.

“I assure you, Uncle,” Lorenzo says quickly, “none of that is happening. I had a woman over last night. In this very room. She just left, in fact. They must’ve misunderstood. Cassian knows the stakes—we can’t be linked to the Fontanesis.”

Another pause. Then: “I hope for your sake that you are speaking the truth. Even Cassian will not save you from my wrath.”

Bootsteps again—retreating.

They fade down the corridor. The silence that follows is long, stretched tight.

Allegra presses a hand to my shoulder before crawling backward. She lifts the bedskirt and gestures. “Come on.”

I slide out, every joint stiff, the journal still gripped tight in my arms. I sit on the edge of the bed, dazed. Everything feels off-center. The room blurs around the edges.

I lift my eyes to Allegra.

“Cassian was the man my sister married?”

She winces—just barely—but I see it.

“I know you have questions,” she says gently, crouching in front of me. “But could I ask you to trust me?”

My voice is brittle. “Do I have a choice?”

Allegra exhales softly and draws me into a hug. I don’t return it at first—my arms frozen at my sides—but then I lean, just a little. Her warmth anchors me.

“I’ll explain everything,” she promises. “Just not now. Please, stay in the room. Shut the door. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.”

She pulls back, brushing a strand of hair from my face like I’m still a child.

Then she’s gone.

The journal lies where I dropped it on the bed. I undress. My shirt is damp with sweat and tension. My fingers tremble as I peel it off and let it fall to the floor. I step out of the rest piece by piece.

I walk naked through the dressing room. My reflection blurs in the mirror, pale and shadowed, a stranger with green eyes ringed in exhaustion. The crescent birthmark at the base of my neck stands out, flushed in the light. Like a symbol someone else carved into me.

The bathtub waits. The room is warm with steam curling from the surface. I climb in, easing down into the water until it kisses the hollow of my throat.

The heat bites at first, then swallows me whole.

My ears fill with the rush of water. My hair drifts around my face like weeds. I close my eyes.

Let it all go.

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