Page 55 of Iron Roses

Two days.

It’s been two days since her lips touched mine like they’d always belonged there. Since her breath hitched in my mouth and her tears soaked my skin, I couldn't tell if she was crying for herself or for the woman who used to wear her face in memory.

The car hums around me—the windows are tinted dark enough to swallow the sun. The seats smell like leather and steel polish. My gloves are on. Smooth black leather. My fingers twitch beneath them, restless.

I’m dressed for war.

A tailored black suit. Vest beneath. Matte buttons. Subtle lines. There’s no tie. No flash. Just precision.

Lorenzo sits beside me, dressed to match—clean-shaven, watch gleaming, hair slicked back. He’s flipping through a folded file, thick fingers rifling the pages like he already hates everything written on them.

“The meet’s confirmed for tonight,” he mutters, glancing up. “Old water tunnel under South Wharf. Sealed entrance. One way in. One way out.”

I say nothing.

His voice sharpens. “That means it’s a trap if someone wants it to be.”

I nod once.

“Bulletproof vest rated for rifle fire,” he adds, tapping his own chest. “Yours is newer than mine. I checked it twice.”

I flex my shoulders. The vest presses tight against my ribs.

He looks at me sidelong. “You know you don’t have to go. You could send a proxy. Hell, I could go in your place.”

Lorenzo sighs and tosses the file onto the seat between us.

“They’re gathering to divide Oreste’s share,” he says. “Ports. Customs. Waterway access. Which means every bloodthirsty bastard who ever wanted a piece of Melbourne is crawling out from whatever hole they were born in.”

He shifts, watches me carefully. “Some of them were loyal to Fontanesi. Some hated him. You know what that makes tonight.”

A pause.

“A powder keg.”

My jaw tightens.

The glove on my right hand creaks softly as I flex my fingers.

“I mean it,” he mutters, voice lower. “You don’t have to go. Uncle wouldn’t want you walking into a slaughter.”

My thoughts are far away. On the one who kissed me like she remembered a hundred lifetimes. Like she knew who I was before either of us had the language to say it.

Giovanna used to kiss me like that, too.

For a moment, I can still feel Elaria’s fingers curled at the back of my neck. Her breath, hot against my jaw. Her voice cracked and trembling, saying You made her so happy.

The phantom of her moan echoes behind my eyes.

And for a second—just a second—I hate myself for needing both their ghosts to feel whole.

“Cassian,” Lorenzo’s voice cuts through, firmer.

I turn to him. He goes still.

Something in my eyes makes his breath falter. He nods once.

He understands.

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