Page 57 of Iron Roses

But I know better.

I stare through him, every muscle coiled beneath the pain of restraint. And then I walk past him.

But the old man doesn’t stop.

His voice follows. “When we find her, our Elaria” he says, loud enough for those near to hear, “I’ll marry her off to the Valosis.”

I stop, only for a fraction of a second.

“She’s shrouded in her father’s disgrace, true,” he continues. “But she’s still a Fontanesi. And her marriage can yield me honest alliances.”

I move forward.

But inside—everything sharpens.

He thinks she’s currency. Another bond to trade.

My father didn’t partner with Oreste out of sentiment. Or legacy. Or out of some attempt to preserve old bloodlines.

It was a strategy.

The Fontanesi estate wasn’t powerful because of its muscle. It didn’t rule with guns or brute force.

It ruled through connection.

Politicians. Judges. Trade routes buried beneath registered names. The estate stretched like veins beneath the skin of Melbourne—old, quiet, and vital.

And now?

That blood runs through Elaria.

****

The meeting chamber is a long corridor of stone and steel, with folding chairs set in a semi-circle around a raised platform. Concrete walls echo with half-muttered curses and clipped laughter. Everyone is dressed like a wolf in silk.

Old dons with yellowed rings. Young heirs with sharper knives than sense. Men who’ve lost brothers to vendettas they still toast in public.

The meeting opens with a man from the Cirelli family slamming his hand against the steel table.

“Oreste was a fool,” he barks. “A sentimental bastard who let his greed cloud his judgment.”

Another man chimes in—Carlucci, from the west.

“Greed?” he scoffs. “Oreste was clean. Too clean. That was the problem. You can’t run ports like a parish.”

Snarls of agreement.

Others jeer.

Then more voices pile in—some demanding to claim his routes, some proposing joint shares. Accusations fly. Old insults surface. Two men nearly come to blows before others pull them apart.

And then—

“Enough,” a voice booms.

Fausto Inzerillo rises, smooth as smoke.

“The old man is dead. His legacy died with him. The only thing left to discuss is inheritance.”

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