“He couldn’t have,” Juliette interrupted. “He doesn’t have the power—”
“You don’t know that!” Roma’s voice cracked, splitting apart into fragments. He turned away again; he spoke while facing the mouth of the alleyway. “And I didn’t know that, either. My father… It may not seem like it because he does not act on it often, but he has eyes everywhere. He has always had eyes everywhere. If he made up his mind to kill you as he promised, if he wanted to set the scene to look as if we had both killed each other in the middle of Shanghai and kick off the blood feud to new heights, then he could do it. I had no doubt.”
“We could have fought him.” Juliette did not know why she bothered offering solutions to a situation long passed. It was instinct at this point, a way of protecting herself from the possibility that Roma had—perhaps—made the correct decision. “Lord Montagov is still human. He could have taken a bullet to the head.”
Roma choked out another laugh, utterly, utterly devoid of humor. “I was fifteen, Juliette. I couldn’t even defend myself against Dimitri’s aggressive shoulder slaps. You think I could put a bullet through my father’s head?”
I could have done it, Juliette wanted to say. But she didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, if she would truly have been capable enough before anger turned her skin from fire to hardened rock. Back then she had believed just as Roma did, believed that this divided city could be sewn back together. She believed it when they sat under the velvet night and looked out at the haze of lights in the distance, when Roma said he would defy everything, everything, even the stars, to change their fate in this city.
“Astra inclinant,” he would whisper into the wind, so heartachingly sincere even when quoting in Latin, “sed non obligant.”
The stars incline us, they do not bind us.
Juliette breathed in shallowly. She felt something inside her unravel.
“What happened?” she managed. “What happened to change his mind?”
Roma started rolling up his sleeves. He was looking for something to do with his hands, something to occupy his restless energy because he could not stand there as Juliette did—a soldier turned to stone.
“My father wanted you dead because he felt insulted. He wanted me dead because I dared rebel.” A long pause. “So I went to him and gave him a better plan. One that would cause more loss to the Scarlets. One that would put me back on his side.” And Roma finally glanced at Juliette again, finally looked her eye to eye. “It would hurt you more than death, but at least you would be alive.”
“You—” Juliette raised her hand, but she didn’t know what she was trying to do. She ended up pointing a finger at Roma instead, like this was nothing but a small scolding. “You—”
You didn’t have the right to make that choice.
But she couldn’t even articulate herself.
Roma reached out, smoothed a palm over her hand so she was making a fist instead. His hands were steady. Juliette’s were shaking. Repenting.
“I can’t be sorry if you’re looking for an apology,” Roma whispered. “And… I suppose I am sorry that I am not more sorry. But given the choice between your life and your Scarlets…” Roma let go of her hand. “I chose you. Are you satisfied?”
Juliette squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t care anymore that that was dangerous, that she was breaking apart in the middle of White Flower territory. She pressed her fist to her forehead, feeling the sharpness of her rings dig into her skin, and breathed, “Indeed, I never shall be satisfied.”
He chose me. She had believed him callous, believed him to have performed the greatest possible betrayal when she had offered him love.
Instead, the truth was that he had gone against everything h
e stood for. He had stained his own hands with the lives of dozens of innocents, placed razor blades in his own heart just to keep Juliette alive and safe, far from the threats of his father. He hadn’t used the information he gleaned from his time with her as a tool of power. He had used it as a tool of weakness.
Juliette almost laughed out loud—in deliriousness, in sheer disbelief. This was what this city did to lovers. It tossed blame around like a slick coat of blood, mixing and merging with everything else until it had left its stain. This was why he hadn’t wanted to tell her. He’d known that she would reach this conclusion—this realization that, in a roundabout way, Nurse’s blood was now on her hands too. If Roma had not truly loved her, her life would have been the one the blood feud took instead—a simple, clean exchange.
She opened her eyes and looked to the skies. Gray, dreary skies of the first day of October. Down here, in the shadows of the cold alleyway, she could remain a lurker in the dark, could reach out and brush away the teardrop hovering at Roma’s jaw and know that nobody could act a witness. She resisted. Somewhere above, past those low clouds and brisk winds, the north star was spinning, spinning atop the world with no regard for anything else.
Her city, her gang, her family. Her family, her gang, her city.
“Very well.”
Roma blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Juliette returned her hands to her sides, smoothing down her dress. She tried for a smile, but she was sure that she merely looked to be in pain.
“Very well,” she repeated. “We hardly have time to be wasting on our personal dramas, do we? Mystery solved.”
She walked over to the knife and pulled it out from the alleyway. It was beautiful. The handle was etched with a lily, the blade shiny, sharp, golden.
This city was on their shoulders. They could not collapse now, no matter how badly Juliette wanted to lie down in the grass and become still for the next millennia. And no matter how much it pained her, she glanced over her shoulder and looked to Roma, looked upon him right as he settled his mask back on, as he turned from mournful to cold once more.
You chose me four years ago. Would you choose me still? Would you choose this version of me—these sharp edges and hands far bloodier than yours?