Page 77 of Iron Roses

I sit. Beside her.

“I’m fine,” she says without looking at me.

She’s not. Her lips are pale around the edges, and the heat hasn’t left her cheeks since we stepped in.

Across the kitchen, Lorenzo smirks into his fork. The scratch of his knife is loud in the hush. He tears into the pancakes like a man delighted by domestic theater.

The side door creaks open. One of the internal men—Luca. He’s out of breath. He leans down, whispers something behind Lorenzo’s shoulder.

Lorenzo’s expression sours like milk in the sun. The fork stills mid-air. His gaze sharpens.

“Dante,” he says aloud, eyes flicking to me. “He’s here.”

She’s already pale, but she pales further.

Lorenzo’s voice softens. “We have maybe a minute. He could search. She can’t go to her room.”

A maid appears—silent, summoned by instinct, not command.

Elaria stands, shaky. I don’t need to say anything. She understands.

Lorenzo nods to the far panel near the wine cellar. The maid opens it and Elaria disappears behind her, eyes catching mine for just a second.

My uncle walks in an unbuttoned coat, silver rings gleaming. His eyes scan the room like it offends him simply by existing.

He’s not alone.

The woman at his side is younger—early twenties. Dark silk blouse. Short hair styled into an asymmetrical cut that draws attention to the sharpness of her cheekbones. Eyes kohl-lined, mouth glossed red. Beautiful in the way paintings are: curated, expensive.

She doesn’t look at me.

She looks around like she’s already bored.

Uncle sits. Doesn’t wait to be invited. He serves himself the pancakes—three—and begins to eat.

He gestures with his fork. “This is Amara. She’s from the Del Fiore family. They’ve been loyal for three generations.” The girl finally glances at me. “She’ll be your wife.”

The sentence lands with no inflection.

He chews.

“Enough time has passed since the Fontanesi girl.”

He says it like he’s naming a dead horse. Not a person.

“You’ve grieved,” he continues. “Fine. I tolerated it. But this… silence?” He wipes his mouth, calm as ever. “It’s indulgent. It’s childish.”

My jaw clenches.

His gaze sharpens. “All we have is business now, Cassian. You know that. You were raised in it. We don’t bleed for ghosts.”

He leans back in the chair.

“Maybe you can stop playing mute and speak. It’s getting tiring.”

Then, like that, he stands. Fixes his cuff. Nods toward Amara.

“She’ll stay. Get to know each other. I trust you’ll be polite.”

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