Page 7 of Iron Roses
Glass hits stone. Hard. Jagged pieces rain down somewhere behind me, out of sight.
Then more—footsteps. It clicks.
And I run.
“Papà!”
My voice scrapes my throat as I tear back through the hallway, heels catching on the rug, hands slamming the doors open.
“Papà!”
The study is open.
And I see them.
Three men. Dressed in black. Armed.
One stands over the desk, tearing drawers out, scattering papers. Another is holding him—Papà—by the front of his coat, shoving him back into his chair. The third leans against the far wall, watching.
He looks like the one in charge.
Papà’s cane lies on the floor beside him. His hands grip the armrests, knuckles white.
The man at the desk pulls a small device from inside the drawer. Holds it up.
“Found it.”
The one at the wall steps forward. His voice is calm. Too calm.
“We know it was you,” he says. “We have the communication logs. Dates. Drops. Times.”
Papà says nothing.
The man moves closer. Tilts his head like he’s studying a stubborn child.
“Tell us who you were passing intel to.”
No response.
I try to move—rush to him—but arms catch me from behind. Rough. Unforgiving. I’m yanked back against a chest and dragged to the corner like I’m nothing.
“Get off me!” I scream, thrashing. “Papà—!”
They ignore me.
The man kneels beside him now. Hands resting on his knees like this is a conversation.
“Answer the question. You don’t have to die today.”
Papà’s mouth is tight. Blood drains from his face, but he doesn’t lower his gaze.
The man sighs.
Then draws his gun.
Papà exhales—once—and finally turns to look at me.
Just once.
