Chapter 3

No sooner had my driver pulled the carriage down the side driveway than a loud bang came from behind the house. A line of smoke followed soon after, trailing from Esmerelsa's garage.

"Esme?" I called.

The all brick, two-story building at the far end of the gardens remained still, the origin of the smoke hidden from my view having only a side perspective of her workhouse. I sprinted around the frozen fountain to check on her.

"Put that damn thing out!" Esme's shrill voice scolded someone inside.

Relief eased some of the urgency in my strides, though her tone only doubled my concern—my cousin never shouted.

As I entered the garage, I found the Marchese brothers pointing between themselves and the overstimulated version of my cousin tending to a fiery mess on the opposite end of the room.

"What the hells is going on here?" I said to announce myself, hastening between two aisles of various scrap metal—careful not to get the grease on my suit.

Aramis snapped his head at me, face glistening with a sheen of sweat and dust powdering one of his cheeks. "I have done nothing. It was him!"

"Me?" Jeremiah asked incredulously. The tips of his pale hair sizzled at frayed ends. "You're the one who ran into me! While I was holding an open flame."

"Would both of you just shut up? I don't understand why you were walking around with fire at all!" Esme shrieked. "Nico, would you help me put this out?" She gestured to a pile of scorched metal sitting on top of a welding bench. Gold and orange flames spilled from the twisted metal, billowing smoke through a cracked window.

Cupping my hands with my palms facing the floor, I sealed the burning structure by starving the fire. With no air to fuel them, the flames gradually receded, leaving nothing besides the steady drip of an oily liquid to the sullied floor. Esme quickly grabbed a drip pan to catch the mess.

"Do you always have to do the hand gestures?" Aramis asked, copying the motion.

"What?" My voice rose a pitch higher. "I—No, I don't have to do anything, it's just easier. Esme are you alright?"

My cousin yanked her welding goggles down off her face and gave me a look I understood too well.

Get them out of here.

"I'm fine. I'm just trying to work on recreating the sketches Aramis provided me of the ship engine. If I can replicate the design on a smaller scale, we could use it for all sorts of things. Unfortunately, someone who will remain nameless lit his cigarillo and caught my work on fire." She rubbed her eyes with the back of her gloves. "And now, I must start all over."

"It wasn't my fault," Jeremiah grumbled.

"To be fair, I did say no smoking in the garage."

Aramis nudged him. "She did mention it, Jer."

Her face forced a stiff smile. She pulled her leather gloves from her small hands and tossed them on a nearby table. "I think now would be a good time to take a break."

Good timing, indeed. "Meet me in the kitchen when you're ready. I have some things I'd like to discuss with the family."

Aramis quirked a brow. "Just the family?"

Family of Camilla was by law and by custom now family of mine—no matter my detached feelings on the association.

"Like it or not, Marchese, that includes you now." I glanced between them. "Clean yourselves up first. Nonna will beat your knuckles bloody if you dredge this filth into her kitchen."

Aramis looked down at his clothes, as if just realizing he was covered in fine grey dust. His black shirt sleeves were pulled up around his forearms. His hair was natural, wavy around his ears without any wax to comb it back as he usually styled it. Jeremiah was dressed similarly. Though he was a head shorter than his older brother and thin as a reed.

Esme tossed one of them a clean rag. "Get out of here, cousin. Saints forbid you get that pretty suit dirty." She winked to indicate her jest. I gave her the beginning of a smile, unable to offer anything more than that, before turning from the lot of them to head inside.

Winter had turned on the city with a vengeance. Small flakes of snow floated from a grey sky, covering the dormant garden with a thin layer of white. I shoved my gloved hands deeper into my coat pockets, enjoying the way the icy breeze nipped at my face, and burned the inside of my chest as I held down a large breath.

The sudden drop in temperature had been abrupt, and I wondered if it had reached the south tip of the Isle. Hightower was always cold from the sea and the stone it was built from. Winter was a different kind of brutal. I had hoped to have Milla back long before the first snow. The weather only insisted on how little progress I'd made of her rescue, and how much her absence was killing me—like the roses that had withered from the frost, leaving only brittle, thorny flesh behind.

Nonna and the aunts prepared dinner in the kitchen as I entered through the swinging doors. Luther hadn't returned yet, and a small part of me worried he had run into trouble taking down the bridge. Esme had weakened the metal infrastructure when relations between the OIC and the Row had broken down. With the rise of the new leadership, I wanted to make sure the descendants of Lynchaven were protected—even if I had played a part in showing that leadership to their seats.

"Nicolai." Nonna turned from her place by the stove to look me over. "You look like shit. When's the last time you've had a full night's sleep?"

A long damn time. Too much kept my mind awake. Too many troubles demanded to be worked out in the quiet hours of the morning.

"Do you think Milla has slept since she was taken?"

None of them spoke a word. My grandmother's gaze fell to the simmering pot she watched over.

"No," I answered for them. "I will rest when Milla can rest." And not a moment sooner. The Attanos were the only people who knew she was alive. The Marchese sons hadn't left the estate, remaining hidden within our walls in case the Firenzes gained word of their survival.

Luther finally appeared a minute later, shattering the awkward silence with a wild look on his face and Gideon beaming behind him. Adler joined a second later, snuffing out his cigarillo before Nonna snapped at him.

"Oh, saints. You three look too happy. What did you boys do now?" Fran asked, not bothering to hide her wince.

"Blew up the fucking bridge!" a voice shouted from the depth of the hall. Dread pooled in my stomach. I had little energy left to direct towards dealing with my uncle.

Lucinda and Ianthe regarded Luther like he'd just committed the crime of the century. They knew their son had killed men—and yet this crossed their moral white line? He blew them both a kiss before stealing a roll from Nonna's serving board. Carnage always gave him an appetite.

"Gideon," Fran barely whispered. "What is your father talking about?"

My cousin grinned and sat on a stool around the kitchen island. "For once, Mother, I had nothing to do with it. Adler and I were just the getaway car. Your daughter, on the other hand—"

"Don't blame this on me!" Esme's voice carried from the hall just as my uncle rolled in, his face flushed as his attention fell to me. Despite the accusations being thrown around the room, he knew this had been my doing. His anger was reserved only for me, as always.

"You did half the work!" Luther said.

"I only weakened the foundation enough so your bombs would be effective."

"They were very effective," Gideon chimed. "Luther blew up the whole thing in less than thirty seconds."

Luther smiled, his chin high. "And fucking beautiful, it was."

The Marchese sons lingered near the doorway, sensing they weren't quite family enough to get in the middle of our squabble.

Solomon rubbed his temples. "I cannot believe you all are being so careless about something like this. The bridge, Nico? Do you understand what you've done?"

"Yes." I leaned a hip against the edge of the kitchen cabinets. "Do you?"

A muscle tensed in his jaw. He braced his bare hands on the counter and took a bracing breath. "Apparently not. Please enlighten us all on why you would destroy the one thing that connects us to the Districts? Why have you threatened the peace between our sides?"

My gaze rolled over the rest of my family, who seemed just as intent on learning my motivations. I hadn't shared my plans with them, not that I needed their permission. I was head of Attano Steel, head of this family—besides Nonna—and the only one who had stepped up after my father died. Solomon didn't have to approve of my choices, but he'd have to accept them.

"The peace between our sides is an illusion. The OIC has no intentions to protect descendants. They refused to look into the conditions at Hightower, they dismissed the idea of releasing the prisoners, and they believe I killed the entire Marchese family and attempted to murder Felix Firenze as well."

"To be fair, they aren't completely wrong," Aramis murmured to his brother.

I shot him a glare but continued despite his interruption. "Later, after the meeting, I met personally with Hartsong where he lied to my face. He promised he wouldn't repeat what the kings on the Continent did to the descendants there. And you know what, Sol?" I leaned forward, looking him dead in the eyes. "He fucking choked on those words thanks to a little celebratory Vex Veritas we sipped on together."

"You drugged the High Overseer?" Solomon's voice rose a pitch higher, gripping the edge of the counter.

"I don't trust politicians, and he proved why I shouldn't." I pointed toward Nonna. "My grandparents and countless others crossed the sea in search of a safe place to be who they are. I will not have a few power-hungry bastards like Halloway and Hartsong and Neal fucking Caldwell subjugate anyone in this city—or this Isle."

"Nicolai." Nonna's voice was far gentler than I'd heard it in a long time. Not since I was a child. "Your heart, as always, is in a good place. But you do not have to fight everyone's battles. Not when you are already fighting one yourself."

I didn't tear my eyes away from my uncle, but I felt my grandmother's bony hand slip into mine. Her support stole some of the tension in my shoulders, letting them relax.

Solomon smoothed his face with a hand. "This is about Camilla, isn't it, Nico?"

"It is always about Camilla," I spat, hating the way her name always shook in my voice. "I did what you requested, Uncle. I tried to get her back the legitimate way, but because of who I am, none of them would even consider opening Hightower. When I get her back, when she returns home, it will be to a city where she is safe."

"What if we just expose ourselves?" Aramis spoke this time. "If the OIC sees we are alive, if we voice our support of your endeavors, perhaps they'd be willing to move forward."

I thought it over, but the same problem remained. "If the OIC finds out you are alive, there will be questions. Not to mention, the Firenzes have been silent since the train incident. They have influence and friendships with powerful people in the OIC, and if they want to take you down, they will find a way. As Milla's only remaining family, I will not let harm befall either of you. Stay dead to the world, and you'll be alive when it truly matters."

"We have to do more than just sit here, Attano!" Aramis argued. "My sister is a Remni. She's not just a descendant who's received a remnant from a Saint passed down for two hundred years. She's the first descendant of Chaos, which means she could be incredibly powerful. Do you have any idea what they must be doing to her?"

"Yes," Luther whispered, staring at his shoes.

Aramis glanced at him, something like regret squinting his eyes. "All I'm saying is that I don't mind risking my neck to get her out of there. As you said, we don't have much family left. I'll do whatever it takes to get my sister back."

He made a point I hadn't taken the time to consider. I was hardly the only one in this room who cared for Milla. I might have been at war, but I had a willing army to fight with me.

"We'll make negotiations with the OIC when the time comes. Another bridge can be built, but freedom is not so easily reestablished once it's taken." I looked at Fran, who was informally positioned as our social director. "That brings me to my next topic of discussion."

"How kind of you to include us this time," Solomon grumbled before pushing off the counter.

Ignoring him, I cleared my throat and said, "I want to assemble our own court. If descendants want any kind of influence concerning the future of Lynchaven, we need a seat at the table. We need representation. The OIC was shocked to see a remnant among their cabinet, but it needs to be commonplace. To do this, we need to have a remnant from each saint. A speaker, a leader, whatever the hells they want to call it. I want to meet with them and discuss what's coming."

"What are you talking about?" my uncle asked. "What's coming, Nico?"

"The war they asked for." I looked him in the eyes as I spoke. "I'm going to free every descendant in Hightower, and when we're done, we'll make this city a place where we can all thrive again."

"I hope you know what you're getting us all into, Nicolai," he said with a drawn-out sigh.

I hadn't a clue. Whatever happened next was out of my hands, but I'd be damned before I handed Milla's fate, and all the rest locked in that prison, into the spineless possession of Theo Hartsong. Without answering him, I pushed away from the kitchen and started toward the door.

"Where are you going, Nicky? Dinner's almost finished," Nonna asked before I could reach the door.

"Just going out for a bit. I won't be long."

Her lips puckered, and yet she leashed the words I knew hung on the tip of her violent tongue. Since Milla had been taken, some of the fight in my grandmother had gone with her. Nonna was fading, and like all the rest of the trouble in my life, I was powerless to stop it. The old woman seemed to have aged several years in the span of a month. Shadows clung to her eyes, a weariness in their grey gaze I'd never seen in them before.

The weather was twice as miserable when I exited out the side gate. The cold was a searing reminder that everything had its season and its turn, its life before death. And nothing—and no one—lasted forever.

The Iron Saintparked idle at the Industrial Station. Marcus, the Depot Master, was finishing up his books when I stepped into the small office overlooking the platform.

"Mr. Attano." He pulled his spectacles from his cheerful face. He always wore a smile, no matter the mood I met him with. "What brings you in so late?"

I sat in a chair in front of his desk. "What keeps you here so late? I'm surprised I caught you."

"Ahh." He waved a hand over the stacks of folders filling his workspace. "Just some housekeeping. Winter is hard on the supply. The snow shuts everything down and causes a mess for the schedules. Nothing you need to be concerned about, I assure you."

"I have full faith you could run this company better than me, Marcus." I pulled two letters from the inner pocket of my coat, turning them over in my hand. "Did the rest of the staff take the train home across the river?"

He nodded somewhat slowly, confirming my suspicions. The previous staff, all of whom were natives, had agreed to sign new contracts recognizing me as their boss, but that had been before this business with the bridge.

I sighed and sat back in the narrow, leather tufted chair. "When they arrive for work tomorrow, I want you to make me a list of everyone who wishes to seek employment elsewhere. I won't hold it against anyone who does not wish to get involved in the newly disturbed relations between the Row and the Districts. Attano and Associates will offer a twelve-week salary to cover any losses while they are searching for a new job—"

"Mr. Attano, if I may—"

"No, Marcus." I cleared my throat. "You repeat those words exactly to everyone employed. The same coverage is offered to you as well, though I'd hate to lose you."

The man smiled and passed a hand through dark hair peppered with grey. "I'm not going anywhere. I've been working for the Iron Saint since I was sixteen. It was my first job, and it will be my last if I can help it."

"Good." I nodded. Hopefully, the others would follow his lead then. "I have one more thing to ask of you, Marcus. You can decline, of course, but I'll pay you well for your trouble."

He scoffed. "I have no doubts about that."

He took the envelopes I offered out to him as I explained. "The black goes to the Overseer's mansion, explaining the terms of the bridge. The gold should be taken to the Vasilli Hotel. Show them the seal in the wax and they'll know exactly where to put it. The white is for you, as it contains your compensation."

He tossed the white envelope in a desk drawer, locking it shut. "Easy enough to remember. I'm not passing along anything dangerous, am I?"

"If you're asking if you'll get arrested, probably not." He shot me a look of concern that pulled a laugh from me. Brief and obnoxious in the small space, but a laugh, nonetheless. I didn't know when I'd last made the sound. "I'm kidding. Neither of these messages contains anything illegal. I can't send my own men, or they would be arrested."

He covered his yawn with his hand and nodded. "I suppose I could make a few stops before I head home tonight. Thank you for the opportunity. I'll get it done for you."

"Thank you, Marcus. Have a good evening."

I made to stand, but the train manager beckoned me to stop, holding the black envelope up in question. "If you don't mind me asking, how do you plan on fighting the OIC? You are a powerful man, Mr. Attano, but the combined influences of the Overseer and his board are too great for any one man to stand against himself."

A satisfied smile curled across my face. "The Iron Saint is the main transportation system for every good and service on this Isle. If they don't want their people to starve, their businesses to go under, or their resources to run out, they'll comply with what we want."

"And what is that?"

"Protection." I turned to leave him still sitting at his desk in the golden light of the gas lamp. "Money runs the world, Marcus. Remember that."

"Money might control the world, Mr. Attano, but do you know what I think?"

My steps paused. His perspective was interesting enough to listen a moment longer. "What do you think?"

"Love and kindness and loyalty." His voice went soft. "The things you cannot control, that cannot be bought, stolen, or negotiated, are the most powerful forces in this world. Over power, position, or money, love will win every time."

With my back still turned to him, I swallowed a thick knot in my throat. "I hope you're right, Marcus."