“It looks like you’re lucky she didn’t kill you,” Dimitri said. He smacked his hand on the wall, rubbing charred grit and dust onto his palm. Roma didn’t bother saying that all those bullets were his. It was not as if Dimitri were actually here to help. He had probably gathered his reinforcements as soon as he heard about the Grand Theatre rocking with gunshots, frantic to be where the chaos was. Dimitri Voronin had been everywhere these few months, ever since he missed the showdown at the hospital and had to piece together afterward what had gone on between the White Flowers and the Scarlet Gang, like everyone else. Dimitri Voronin would not be left out of the next big showdown. At the sound of any disturbance in the city—no matter how slight—so long as it involved the blood feud, he was now the first on the scene.
“What are you doing here?” Roma asked. He touched his cheek, wincing at the bruising that had spread. “My father sent me.”
“Yes, well, that was not a great decision, was it? We saw the merchant outside having a nice chat with Kathleen Lang.”
Roma bit back his curse. He wanted to spit it to the ground, but Dimitri was watching, so he only turned away, picking up his fallen pistol. “No matter. Tomorrow is a new day. It’s time to go.”
“You will give up like that?”
“This is Scarlet—”
A whistle blew outside, echoing up and down the maintenance stairs. This time Roma did curse aloud, tucking his pistol away before the garde municipale barged into the storage unit, their batons out. For whatever reason, the enforcement saw the White Flowers and decided to direct their attention to Dimitri, eyes pinned on his weapons.
“Lache le pistolet,” the man at the front demanded. His belt glinted, metal handcuffs catching the low light. “Lache-moi ?a et lève les mains.”
Dimitri did not do as he was told, did not drop the gun dangling casually in his grip nor put his hands up. His refusal seemed to be insolence, but Roma knew better. Dimitri did not speak French.
“You don’t control us,” Dimitri snapped in Russian. “So why don’t you go on and—”
“？a va maintenant,” Roma interrupted. “J’ai entendu une dispute dehors du théatre. Allez l’investiguer.”
The garde municipale officers narrowed their eyes, unsure if they should follow Roma’s instruction—if there was truly an incident outside to tend to or if Roma was only making up lies. It was indeed a lie, but Roma only had to snap “Go!” again and the garde municipale scattered.
That was who he had worked so hard to turn into. That was who he was doing everything in his power to stay as. Someone who was listened to even when the officers were Scarlets.
“Impressive,” Dimitri said when it was just the White Flowers again. “Really, Roma, it is most—”
“Shut up,” Roma snapped. The effect was immediate. He wished he could feel some satisfaction at the red that rose up Dimitri’s neck, at the amused smirking from the men that Dimitri had brought along, but all he felt was empty. “Next time don’t come prancing into foreign-controlled territory if you don’t know how to deal with the foreigners.”
Roma marched out, overly aggressive in his stride as he took the maintenance stairs back down to the ground floor. It was hard to say what exactly had him this worked up; there was so much boiling beneath his skin—the merchant slipping away, the strange assassin in the stalls, Juliette being here.
Juliette. He stomped extra hard coming out of the theater, squinting up at the gray clouds. A jolt of pain came from his arm then, and his hand flew to the cut that Juliette had made, thinking he would find a clump of blood, as rancid and dead as his feelings for her. Instead, as he rolled his sleeve up gingerly, his fingers came upon only smooth fabric.
With a start, Roma stopped at the side of the pavement. He peered at his arm. It had been finely wrapped, secured with a bow.
“Is this silk?” he muttered, frowning. It looked like silk. It looked like the silk of Juliette’s dress, torn from the hem, but why would she do that?
A horn blew from the road, drawing his attention. The car idling there flashed its headlights, before the chauffeur at the driver’s seat stuck his arm out and waved at Roma. Roma remained unmoving, his brow furrowed.
“Mr. Montagov!” the White Flower finally hollered after a long minute. “Can we go yet?”
Roma sighed, hurrying to the car.
There were twenty-two vases scattered around the Cai mansion, all of them filled with red roses. Juliette reached out to cup one bud in her palm, her finger sliding along the delicate petal’s edge. Nightfall had long passed outside. The hour was late enough that most of the servants had gone to sleep, shuffling to their rooms in their nightgowns, bidding Juliette a good rest when they passed her in the hallway. She figured they had spoken only because it would have been strange not to acknowledge the Scarlet heir lying on the floor, arms splayed and legs propped upright on the walls as she waited outside her father’s office. The last servant had bidden her well more than half an hour ago. Since then she had stood up and started pacing, much to Kathleen’s annoyance. Her cousin had remained seated primly on an actual chair the whole time, a folder waiting on her lap.