Page 56 of Iron Roses

He reaches under his seat, pulls out a sleek black handgun. Holds it out across the space between us.

I take it.

He starts the engine. The car purrs and begins to move.

The approach to the tunnel is lined with checkpoints. Armed men with scanners, dogs, and metal detectors. Retinal scans. Passcodes whispered between men who haven’t trusted their own brothers in years.

Lorenzo drives past the first barricade, window cracked just enough for identification. A young enforcer leans in, studies our faces. He steps back quickly when he sees mine.

The gates open.

Further down, a second checkpoint—two guards in Kevlar, a scanning wand, a mirror beneath the car. Another pause. Another nod. We pass.

The mouth of the tunnel yawns before us, carved deep into the bones of South Wharf, hidden beneath decades of history and rot. It was once a drainage system. Now it’s an empire’s spine.

Lorenzo parks. We exit the car. His hand checks the back of his jacket once, subtly. So does mine.

Light buzzes overhead—dim, flickering fluorescents mounted to old stone. Voices echo down the corridor—some familiar, most not.

I walk forward.

Every step is measured. Intentional.

Then—

A voice stops me cold.

“Well, well. Custode delle Ossa the second.”

I turn.

Fausto Inzerillo.

Hair thinner, white at the temples. His suit is a size too large for his withering frame, but his presence hasn’t dulled. His smile is the same—tight, sharp, like the edge of a poisoned blade.

He steps forward, hands spread as if greeting an old friend.

“My word. You’re a man now,” he says, eyes raking over me as though assessing inventory. “Last time I saw you, you were still hiding behind Dante’s coat tails.”

He chuckles, then pauses—just enough to let the room hold its breath.

“I hear my niece has gone missing.”

He says it casually, like commenting on the weather.

His eyes narrow, mouth twisting slightly. “Now, I know you’re far too smart to play this game this messily, so this is a silly question—but I’ll ask anyway. Is she with you?”

Lorenzo is at my side before I can blink.

“She is not,” he answers.

Fausto’s smile widens, dripping with false warmth.

“Of course. How silly of me to ask,” he says, hands clasping behind his back. “I see you’re still not speaking. The death of my other niece must’ve done a big one on you.”

My jaw flexes. Our eyes lock.

I spent years combing over Giovanna’s death—bloodless paper trails, broken leads, a silent war disguised as coincidence.They said it was a random attack. A mugging. An act of retaliation from some half-forgotten grudge.

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