Page 94 of Iron Roses

It was three days of searching that yielded nothing.

I rise, knees stiff. The joints protest but I ignore them. My hand brushes the side of the headstone once more, not with ceremony—just contact.

The car waits just outside the iron gate. Lorenzo is inside. When I get in, he shifts into gear, he glances over. “Do you want some coffee?”

****

The café is tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore on the south end of Fitzroy.

Lorenzo orders two long blacks. No milk. No sugar. He carries them to a small table near the window, nodding toward the seat across from him.

I take it. The ceramic is hot in my hands.

Lorenzo watches me for a moment, then looks down at his cup. “I never apologized to you.”

He doesn’t need to clarify.

“Giovanna,” he says. “If I’d done my job, she’d still be here.”

I found him slumped against the corridor wall, breath shallow. The liquor stank on him, but the empty glass I found later had a film on the rim. Now I know he had been drugged. Or at least—set up to fail.

Lorenzo drinks. His hands are steady, but his shoulders carry the tremor he won’t voice.

It wasn’t his fault.

It was Dante.

As if hearing it from my thoughts, Lorenzo leans back and exhales. “Dante’s in the hospital. His face is pretty messed up.” He lifts his hand and taps the bridge of his nose lightly. “Might need work done. Nose is gone. Jaw’s worse. He can’t speak, which is ironic. You cracked him good.”

My fingers tighten slightly around the cup. The steam fogs the rim.

“This means war, Cassian.”

I sip. Let the bitterness settle behind my teeth.

Lorenzo lowers his voice. “They want a meeting with you. The families. They don’t know it was you that put him in the hospital—yet. But it’s only a matter of time. And if they sense division?”

That’s how families survive. By eliminating rot. By purging weakness. They’ll call it justice.

Lorenzo sighs and adjusts in his chair. His eyes settle back on me. “I couldn’t protect Giovanna,” he says. “But I can do that for her sister.”

His mouth tugs to one side, like the words are heavier than he thought.

“I’m not a fan of whatever’s happening between you two,” he adds. “But what’s right is right. I’ll cover you for now. Handle the heat. But you need to keep your house in order. If there’s doubt in your ranks, they’ll smell it.”

He sips once more, then sets his cup down.

“Let’s find her.”

The phone on the table buzzes. Lorenzo checks the screen, eyes flicking left to right.

He lifts it to his ear. Listens. Then:

“We’re on our way.”

He ends the call.

Meets my eyes.

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