Page 5 of Iron Roses

He had no choice but to look at me. Not to see me. Just to use me.

I became the heir. The next daughter.

But never his daughter. Not like she was.

Mamma fought for me.

I remember the nights I’d lie in bed listening to their voices rise behind closed doors.

“She is your child too, Oreste!”

“Not today, Adrianna.”

“Why do you treat her like a ghost?”

Mamma would come to my room after. Stroke my hair, whisper promises she couldn’t keep. She used to bring flowers into the house just to brighten it, even when no one was visiting.

“Don’t let him teach you to disappear,” she told me once. “You come from fire. Don’t forget that.”

She died two years after Giovanna. A car accident. The kind that happens on a winding road with no guardrail and too many secrets.

After that, it was just me. And him.

And the spaces in between.

The wind changes.

Papà clears his throat. He turns back toward the car without a word.

I rise, knees aching from the cold. My hand lingers on Giovanna’s headstone. The letters blur for a second, then sharpen again.

I follow him.

The gravel crunches under our feet. A magpie watches us from the fence post, feathers ruffled in the breeze.

We reach the car. The driver opens the door and we get in.

****

The wind hasn’t let up by the time we reach the house.

It howls through the courtyard like a warning, rattling the glass in its frames as I trail Papà up the steps. The house looms above us, pale stone stained darker beneath the sky’s growing gloom.

Papà’s cane strikes sharper against the marble than usual. That’s how I know something’s coming.

At the top of the stairs, he turns left instead of going to his wing. My stomach knots.

The study smells like old paper and cedar oil. The fire is lit, but it doesn’t reach the corners. I stand by the threshold until he gestures with a flick of his wrist.

“Come.”

I walk in.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands behind his desk, one hand braced against the carved wood, the other reaching for a key tucked beneath his jacket. He unlocks the drawer and pulls out a journal—black leather, thick, edges worn soft with age.

He looks at it a moment too long. Like it’s whispering something only he can hear. Then he holds it out to me.

I step forward. My fingers brush his as I take it.

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