Page 89 of Iron Roses

My throat clenches.

“She was supposed to be quiet. Decorative. But she ran off. Married Cassian. Married him. Not just bonded—she chose him. And Dante?” He laughs once, short and bitter. “Dante told me Cassian was in love with her. That she’d made the boy loyal.”

He shakes his head.

“Couldn’t have that. So we corrected it.”

Fausto meets my eyes, and this time I see the satisfaction underneath.

“Yes. We had her killed. She never saw it coming. Dante arranged the logistics. I made sure no one asked questions. And just to be safe, I waited. A year.”

He spreads his arms.

“Then I made the call. An anonymous report. A quiet tip. Reported a few things to the right people.”

Fausto steps closer to the bars again.

“But here’s what I want to know.”

He crouches slightly, his face level with mine.

“Your father had things hidden. Maps. Codes. Port routes. I’ve searched his home. The ledgers were clean.” His voice lowers. “You know where they are, don’t you?”

He crouches in front of me like a priest ready to hear confession. Except there’s no salvation behind his eyes. Just want. Just fire fed by rot.

I feel him sense it—the refusal inside me. Even as my vision blurs, even as bile scrapes the back of my throat, I don’t move. I don’t flinch.

A long breath leaves him. His smile drops.

Then he steps forward.

The bars groan as his hands curl through the space between them. One arm snakes in. I try to twist away, but I’m too slow. His fingers tangle into my hair, right at the scalp.

My head jerks back with a wet gasp. Pain explodes at the base of my skull. My neck snaps taut, spine curving like a bow pulled to the breaking point. The world tips sideways, then slams into clarity.

“You bitch,” he hisses. Then he drives my head forward.

Bone meets iron.

My forehead bounces off the horizontal bar across the door. Lights flash behind my eyes, blooming like stars made of glass.

I slump, but he yanks again.

My skull hits the bar again. My vision goes white.

The third time, my knees slide, scraping over the grate. A bolt near my shin slices through the fabric. I don’t feel the blood until it drips. My cheek splits along the metal edge. Salt air rushes in. The sting is instant.

Still, I don’t scream.

Only a low groan slips from my mouth—ugly, raw, unformed. My throat tightens, trying to close around it.

My head lolls. My body doesn’t know how to hold itself upright anymore. Blood drips past my brow, thick and warm, trailing into my lashes. I blink, but the world stays blurred.

He slams my head again. The corner of the bar hits just above my temple. I hear the skin split. The heat pours down my scalp like fingers made of fire. My mouth opens, but I only taste blood and salt.

“Fuck!” he roars, switching languages like they’ve failed him. “Puttana silenziosa—What are you protecting?”

I sag against the door, breath coming in short, wet gasps. My knees are puddled in filth and seawater. My arms are twisted behind me, the ties cutting into flesh turned dead from pressure. A bolt presses into my collarbone from the floor, sharp and unwavering.

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