The white noise in my head had hardened into a diamond-sharp focus. The panic was still there, a black hole in my chest, but it was now fuel. They wanted a reaction. They would get one. They would get the Crimson Rose, stripped of her bloom, and they would learn why that made her infinitely more dangerous.
I was already in the garage beneath the opera house, pulling on a black riding jacket over my bloodless hands, when the second envelope was found. Not delivered. It had been slipped under the windshield wiper of my Ducati. A plain white envelope, identical to the first.
My hands didn't shake this time. They were steady, lethal. I tore it open.
Another poem. The same elegant, mocking script.
To find the morning's stolen light,
Forgo your power, your fearful might.
Leave throne and crown and scepter dear,
And travel to the place of fear.
Where broken promises are kept,
And lonely souls have often wept.
Beneath the bridge where trains have died,
Alone, with nowhere left to hide.
The location was a riddle, but a transparent one to anyone who knew the city's underbelly. The Grayson Street Viaduct. An abandoned railway bridge slated for demolition, a known dumping ground and a place for deals gone bad. Where broken promises are kept.
They wanted me alone. Unarmed? They weren't that naive. But without an army. They wanted to see me desperate.
I mounted the Ducati, the engine's growl a promise of violence. The helmet camera Viktor had insisted on—a paranoid precaution for a Don who rarely rode into ambushes—was a silent witness now. I hit record.
The ride was a blur of choked streets and screaming instincts. I parked a block from the rusted skeleton of the viaduct, the desolate area echoing with the drip of water and distant traffic. I walked into the shadow of the crumbling concrete pillars, the smell of wet decay and urine thick in the air.
No Anya. No Ava.
Just another envelope, weighted down with a rock on a collapsed concrete pylon.
My jaw ached from clenching. I opened it.
So quick to follow, rose in gloom,
But you have reached an empty room.
The next step lies where knowledge sleeps,
Where silent, watchful memory keeps.
Where stories end on dusty shelves,
You'll find the next clue for yourselves.
The Public Library, third floor,
The History section, aisle four.
A scavenger hunt. They were playing with me. And with every step, they were pulling me further from my resources, exhausting me, mocking me.
I turned, and they were there. Two men. Not the polished professionals of the warehouse or the data center. These were bruisers, hired muscle with dead eyes. They stepped from behind a pillar, blocking my path back to the bike. The message was clear: the game didn't allow for easy retreat.
"The boss said you might need persuading to keep playing," one grunted, cracking his knuckles.
They didn't expect a fight. They expected a terrified mother.
They got a hurricane.
I didn't wait. I moved. The first one lunged, and I ducked under his swing, driving my elbow up into his solar plexus. The air left him in a whoosh. The second was smarter, faster. He had a knife. It flashed in the dim light, slicing towards my ribs.
I twisted, the blade grazing my side, a line of fire through my jacket and skin. I ignored it. I caught his wrist, slammed it against the concrete pylon. Once. Twice. The bone snapped. His scream was cut short as I drove my knee into his face.
The first was recovering, pulling a sap from his pocket. I was on him, a frenzy of controlled violence. A strike to the throat. A wrench of his arm. He went down, choking. I didn't stop to finish them. They were obstacles, not the goal.
But the fight had cost me. The cut on my side was bleeding, a warm, sticky seep. Adrenaline was the only thing holding the pain at bay. My breath came in ragged gasps that burned in my lungs.
I stumbled back to the Ducati, my vision swimming at the edges. I fumbled for the envelope, the poem, my phone. I called Viktor, my voice a harsh rasp. "Grayson Viaduct. Two men. Clean it up. They're alive. Make them talk. Library. History section. Third floor. Sending Leo now."
I didn't wait for confirmation. I gunned the engine, the roar a physical vibration that grounded me. The helmet camera was still running, a silent testament: they had attacked first. This was self-defense.
The ride to the Public Library was a trial. My side screamed with every bump, every lean into a turn. The world threatened to gray out. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, using the sharp pain to stay conscious. Anya. Ava.
I parked illegally at the curb, staggering into the grand, hushed building. The serene atmosphere, the smell of old paper, was a surreal contrast to the violence and the bleeding wound under my jacket. I took the stairs to the third floor, my legs like lead.
Aisle four. History.
I scanned the dusty shelves. And there, tucked between volumes on the Industrial Revolution, was another cream-colored envelope.
My hand left a smudge of blood on the shelf as I snatched it. I leaned against the stacks, tearing it open, my breath loud in the quiet.
The rose is wounded, thorn and stem,
But carries on to rescue them.
Your dedication is admired,
But now, your strength is much required.
The final test is not of brain,
But if your love can bear the pain.
The old Rossì cannery, pier eighteen,
Come see the end of this sad scene.
Alone. Or morning light goes out.
The cannery. Of course. A place from my father's early days, a rotten symbol of our roots. The final "sad scene."
My phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number. No words. Just a photo.
It was Ava. Her eyes wide with fear, a gag in her mouth, her hands bound. The background was blurry, industrial.
Then another photo. Anya, asleep or unconscious, curled on a dirty mattress, her blue tulle dress a heartbreaking speck of color in the gloom.
The black hole in my chest collapsed into a singularity of pure, homicidal purpose.
They had them. Both of them.
I pushed off from the shelves, ignoring the librarian's startled look as I streaked past, a vision of blood and fury in the temple of knowledge. The poem hunt was over. They'd shown me their cards. Now, they would meet the Rose. Not the one from the poems, but the one drenched in the blood of her enemies, coming to reclaim what was hers.
The pain in my side was nothing. The blurry vision was irrelevant. Every ounce of my being, every skill learned in violence, every drop of love that had ever softened me, was now forged into a single, unstoppable point.
I was going to the cannery. And I was going to paint its rusted walls crimson.