Iron Roses (Melbourne Syndicate #2)

Prologue – Cassian

The woods breathe like they’re watching.

Pines tower overhead, branches tangled like fingers locked in prayer—or warning. It’s midnight, but the darkness here feels older. Hungrier. The kind that remembers things men tried to bury.

We walk in silence. Me, and him.

My father doesn’t speak much. Not to me. Not unless it’s to correct or command. Tonight, I’m both: obedient and useful. I hold the box in my hands. It’s made of cherrywood, polished to a dark sheen. Inside, the blade rests.

It’s always the same blade.

We step into the clearing and I see them.

Oreste stands near the tent, arms folded behind his back, posture too still. Like a statue waiting to be broken. Two men stand just behind him, dressed like shadows. His soldiers.

Enemy soldiers.

My stomach doesn’t turn anymore when I think of that word. “Enemy.”

It’s just another name for people we’re supposed to destroy or do business with. Tonight, it’s the latter. A dangerous business. One that could tear the entire north in two if it ever came to light.

But it won’t. This is a secret no one can know.

The tent sits in the center of the clearing, ivory white with gold-stitched corners. It looks like something meant for weddings. Not this. Not what we’re about to do.

My father nods once. I hand him the box.

We enter.

Candles line the circle etched into the floor—chalk and salt and dark streaks of ash. In the center: the baby.

She’s wrapped in a wine-colored cloth, the kind used for sacred rites. Her fists twitch. She doesn’t cry yet. Doesn’t know what’s coming.

A woman stands beside her, face pale, mouth trembling. The baby’s mother.

But she’s not part of this. She’s just the vessel. She isn’t allowed to speak.

Not tonight.

My father steps into the circle. So does Oreste. They stand opposite each other, both dressed in black, both holding something. My father: the box. Raffaele: a vial of oil.

The ceremony begins.

My father kneels and opens the box with reverence I’ve never seen from him—not even at funerals. He takes the blade, kisses the hilt, then presses it to his palm. The cut is quick and clean.

Oreste does the same.

They clasp hands, palm to palm, and let their blood drip onto the white silk ribbon coiled between them.

My father speaks the first words.

“Il sangue per legare. Il silenzio per proteggere.”

Blood to bind. Silence to protect.

Oreste picks up the child. He lays her gently in the center of the circle, right on top of a carved sigil—an old crest I don’t recognize. Her eyes blink. Still no crying.

“Come here,” my father says.

I step forward.

I’ve been trained for this moment. Not the why—just the how. I kneel beside her, heart steady. I don’t let them see the nerves flickering behind my ribs.

My father slices a shallow line across my forearm.

Oreste uncaps the vial and pours oil onto the baby’s bare chest, tracing the same sigil in practiced motions. Then my blood is added. Just a drop. My father presses my cut above her heart.

My blood meets oil. Oil meets skin.

Then he wraps the white ribbon around our arms—hers, impossibly small; mine, already lined with muscle—and knots it. Seven times.

It’s not just a symbol. It’s a vow. One I don’t understand yet, but feel anyway.

Oreste speaks the final words, voice thick.

“Proteggila come fratello. Come spada. Come ombra.”

Protect her as a lover. As a sword. As shadow.

The flames waver. The baby blinks. The ribbon glows faintly—just for a second.

Then it’s over.

My father rises first. Oreste lingers by the child, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. Then we leave.

Outside, the night presses in, heavy and waiting.

The cars are parked just beyond the trees. Our driver lights a cigarette, keeping his eyes down. My father walks ahead, his voice sharp as always.

“You did well,” he says.

It doesn’t sound like praise. It sounds like confirmation.

He stops by the car and pulls the door open, expecting me to follow. I reach for the handle—then pause.

My wrist. Bare.

I turn slightly, enough to mask the movement as a stretch. The watch—the gold one my mother gave me—is gone. I must’ve left it in the tent when I took off my jacket.

My father’s already on the phone. Barking orders to someone. He doesn’t notice when I step away.

I cut back through the trees, quiet. My footsteps are second nature, memory built into the soles of my shoes. I know the bends of this forest better than I know my own house. We’ve used these woods for drills, for trials. For rites.

I’m almost to the tent when I hear it.

A woman sobbing through clenched teeth.

“Why her?” she cries. “Why did you use my daughter, not yours?!”

I freeze behind the trunk of a tree, breath snagging mid-step.

It’s the woman from before. The baby’s mother.

“You should’ve used your other daughter! She’s older. Why—why our child?”

Her voice fractures at the edges.

Oreste says nothing. Or I can’t hear him. Only her, breaking in pieces that no one seems willing to catch.

I should leave.

But I don’t.

A soft noise draws my head left. Not the voices this time. Something closer.

A sob.

I follow it, careful not to break the underbrush. It leads away from the tent, just beyond the fire circle.

There. Curled at the base of a tree, arms wrapped around her knees.

She’s small. Younger than me. Ten, maybe.

Long hair veils her face. Her dress is thin and ripped at one sleeve. Bare feet tucked in tight. She’s crying like she’s trying not to, chest jerking in quiet bursts.

I don’t know who she is.

But I know that sound.

I sit. Not too close. Just near enough to be there. No words. Just company.

She doesn’t notice me at first.

Then—she does.

Her head lifts. Her eyes are red, but she doesn’t look away. Her breath is still shaky. I say nothing.

This quiet—it's not awkward. It feels like a thread pulled taut between us, holding something in place.

She sniffs, wipes her nose on her sleeve, gaze never leaving mine.

I lean forward a little, studying her face. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. Lips chapped from cold. She’s got this stubborn set to her chin like she’s been told to stay quiet her whole life and resents it.

I reach out. Wipe the tear trails with the side of my thumb.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She hesitates. Then, voice hoarse:

“Giovanna.”

It fits.

“I’m Cassian.”

Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to understand why I came.

I don’t have an answer. But I know I won’t forget this moment.

Not the way she didn’t shrink away. Not the way silence wrapped around us like a second binding.

Not the way I already feel like I’ve always known her.

It was then I knew it was her I would live and die to protect.