Page 88 of Iron Roses

Then my blindfold is ripped away.

Light floods in—gray and dull and pulsing with the motion of water.

I squint, blinking rapidly. My head tilts up, neck muscles shaking under the effort.

A man stands in front of the bars.

Hands behind his back. Coat buttoned.

He leans forward slightly.

Smiling.

“Welcome aboard,” Fausto says, voice smooth and bright. “Rough trip?”

I try to answer, but nothing comes out.

My eyes meet his. He tilts his head.

“I imagine you have questions,” he says.

The floor beneath me is slick with seawater and rust. Every time the boat rocks, my shoulder presses harder into the iron frame.

My wrists burn. I think the plastic ties cut deeper when I was dragged here. I can’t feel my hands anymore.

He stands just outside the cage, hands folded neatly behind him, coat buttoned to the throat. He looks like he’s waiting for applause.

“I wonder if your father ever told you the truth,” he says finally.

He begins to pace across the grated floor.

“Did he tell you that you were bound to Cassian as a baby? I guess you figured that out,” he says, seeing my lackluster expression.

“Yes. It was my idea.” He doesn’t gloat—his tone is cool, like he’s stating facts he’s known for years. “Your father was cautious, always so afraid of making the wrong move. But he listened to me. He trusted me. I told him that securing a future with the Rivettis would keep the Fontanesi name strong.”

He stops near the bars, leaning slightly forward.

“I’m the one who arranged it. The binding. I told him it was the best way to protect the family business. One child betrothed. A future of shared power. And your father agreed. Bound you to Cassian, a child himself. Before either of you knew what it meant.”

He straightens. His mouth twists slightly.

“And it worked. For a while. The families got along. Business flowed. Oreste rose. I kept us profitable.”

His voice darkens just slightly.

“But your father—he got soft. Believed he could do it alone. I stepped away. Let him take the spotlight. And when the heat came, he thought I’d left him to clean it up. He never realized I was the one lighting the fuse.”

My stomach turns.

Fausto looks at me. There’s no shame in his face.

He begins pacing again.

“But I didn’t want blood on my hands. That’s not how I work. I prefer leverage. Fear. Timing. So I watched him. Waited. Let him feel safe.”

He stops again, and this time his eyes sharpen.

“Then Giovanna ruined it.”

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