Page 107 of Veil of Smoke

I duck low, pistol raised, moving through the haze, my boots crunching over glass and splintered wood. Viviana’s above, her shadow darting along the mezzanine, and I hear another grunt drop, a muffled thud as her blade finds its mark.

The main floor’s a battlefield, crates split open, sandbags leaking onto the boards, Caldera’s crew shouting over the fire’s roar.

I spot the lieutenant who threw the Molotov, his bald head shining under the floodlights, his voice barking orders as he reloads a pistol.

I edge closer, sticking to the shadows, the orchestra pit’s lip shielding me from the beams. My pulse hammers steady, adrenaline sharpening every creak, every flicker of flame, and I taste ash on my tongue, bitter and thick.

I thought this would feel cleaner, like a plan I could map out, move by move. But it’s chaos, jagged and relentless, and I’m deep in it, every breath a fight, every step a gamble.

Viviana drops down beside me, her knife slick with blood, her breath fast but even. “They’re thinning,” she says, wiping the blade on her sleeve, her eyes scanning the floor with a predator’s focus.

“Good,” I say, nodding toward T-Bone’s cover. “He’s holding, but we’ve got to move him.”

She follows my gaze, then points to another lieutenant. “Take him first.”

I nod, and we split again, her circling left through the pit’s shadow, me creeping right along a row of busted seats.

The fire spreads fast, curling up the walls, tendrils of orange clawing at the velvet, and I hear the wind howl louder outside, thunder cracking sharp, shaking the theater’s frame.

The lieutenant’s back is to me, his hands steady as he yells into a radio, static buzzing loud over his voice. I close the gap, lunging low, my knife sinking deep into his side, twisting hard.

He gasps, the radio slipping from his grip, and I yank the blade free, blood gushing dark onto the floor.

He collapses, twitching, and I kick the Molotov shards aside, the flames licking closer, heat searing my skin. Viviana’s already on the move, taking out a grunt near the stage, her garrote a blur as she pulls him down.

I weave back to T-Bone, the smoke choking now, clawing at my throat. He’s propped against the sandbags, pistol in hand, firing at a shadow darting through the crates.

“Still kicking,” he grunts, blood staining his teeth, his face pale but fierce.

“Keep it that way,” I say, hauling him up, his weight heavy against my side. The fire roars behind us, velvet burning bright, and I feel the heat blister my back, a warning I can’t ignore.

Viviana joins us, her face smudged with soot, eyes burning through the haze.

“Path’s open,” she says, nodding toward the side corridor we entered through, its exit a faint promise in the dark.

I nod, dragging T-Bone with me, his boots scraping the floor, leaving a trail of blood and grit. The theater’s a furnace, flames climbing high, smoke flooding every corner, and I hear Caldera’s crew falter, their shouts breaking into coughs as we pull away.

We hit the corridor, cool wind rushing in through a shattered window, cutting through the heat like a blade.

Thunder cracks again, loud and close, and I feel the night shift, the war baring its teeth around us, relentless and alive.

I thought I’d lost the stomach for this, the edge dulled by time, by ghosts. But it’s here, sharp in my hands, in Viviana’s unflinching stride, in T-Bone’s stubborn will to stand.

The stage reeks of oil and tension.

Thick cords snake between overturned crates and scorched maps, all of it wired for control. Makeshift antennae spike out of cracked tech units. This was Corradino’s command post—built for war, wrapped in steel and silence. Now, it’s stripped bare. And Corradino?

Gone.

But Enrico waits.

He stands shirtless in the center of the mess, blood already slick on his chest. His boots creak as he shifts. The stage lights throw sharp beams across his face, catching the ragged scar beneath his left eye. That same eye locks onto mine with nothing but contempt.

“Well,” he drawls, voice like sandpaper over gravel. “If it isn’t the Caldera mutt. Come to chew on his own leash?”

I say nothing. My fists curl at my sides. The skin across my knuckles is still raw from the last bastard who stood between me and freedom.

Enrico grins like he’s already won. “You used to be death in motion, Dario. Now look at you. Chasing shadows with a florist.”

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