Page 61 of Iron Roses

I lift two fingers, then tap them to my chest, then draw an arc through the air.

Fausto.

She glances at me in the rearview. “You think?”

I nod once.

She tilts her head, not denying it. Then she shrugs. “Could be. But it’s no use stirring the water now.”

I hold her eyes.

She looks away first.

“I’ve got contacts working on new ID papers,” she says after a beat. “Clean background. New location. New name. In a week, she’ll be out of your hair.”

My teeth clench.

She opens the door before I can respond. Blood stains the door handle. She steps out, then bends to look back in.

“It’s for the best,” she mutters. Then she’s gone, heels clicking off into the dark.

Lorenzo doesn’t move.

The car is quiet again.

He pulls out. “You know,” he says, voice low, “she’s right.”

I don’t answer.

“She’ll be safer. Out of this. Away from this.”

I still say nothing.

The tires hum against the road. The city bleeds past in a blur of lights and shadow.

The gates groan open.

The car pulls into the circular drive, engine cutting. The night is still.

She’s waiting in the house.

Elaria stands barefoot on the top step. Hair loose, curled slightly from the sea air. She’s wearing a soft grey sweater that hangs off one shoulder, the sleeves covering her hands. My boots land on the stone with a wet scrape. Blood spatters my cuff. My vest clings to me with sweat.

The porch light halos her from behind. Her arms hang loose, her back straightening as I approach.

Lorenzo climbs out beside me, grimacing. He follows my gaze.

Then he sighs when he sees her.

“Right,” he mutters, already heading toward the house. “I’ll deal with the car tomorrow.”

The door closes behind Lorenzo with a muted thud. Her eyes are on me the whole time.

She walks down the steps, her sweater shifting with each move, bare feet soft against cold stone.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, voice low, thick with something that clings like steam in winter air. “She can’t sleep when you’re not back. I kept having flashes.”

Her hand lifts—gentle fingers brushing the inside of her wrist, like the memory still lingers there. She steps closer. Close enough that I feel her breath.

---