Page 13 of Veil of Smoke

He didn’t take anything. He didn’t leave a name. Just a cut and a warning I can’t explain.

They’ll ask why someone came after me.

They’ll want to know what Red Thorn means.

And I don’t know. Not really.

But there’s someone who does.

Dario.

His face hits me like a flash—his voice in the cold, his hands bloody, the way he stood over a body like he’d done it a hundred times before.

I didn’t ask him questions that night. I ran.

Now I don’t have that luxury.

Chapter 4 – Dario

The alley behind Velvet Vice stinks of wet rot and last chances. Narrow and cracked, it funnels rain from the buildings above, puddling in the uneven dips between dumpsters and broken crates. Neon bleeds onto the slick pavement from the sign above the back door—pink letters half-burnt out, humming like a dying fuse.

Leon’s posted up beside the door, one boot braced to the wall, shoulders hunched in a coat too thin for this weather. He lifts his chin when he sees me, says nothing.

I nod once. That’s enough.

Inside, the temperature jumps by twenty degrees. Heat clings to skin—sweat, smoke, perfume, and the grease they wipe from the kitchen fan but never fully clean. Brass spills from the stage in slow, lazy waves, trumpets chasing keys, the drums tight and steady. It’s jazz for people who think they understand pain but really just want to feel classy while they drink.

I scan the room.

Same regulars in the back booths. Same new blood at the bar, too eager, too loud, eyes always searching. A few Caldera men posted near the side tables. They don’t make eye contact. We all know better than to pretend this is neutral ground.

Rita catches my eye before I even make it halfway across the room.

Red hair coiled up like fire. Cigarette hanging from her lips, lipstick still perfect. Black tank top, gold hoops, nails like glass blades. She’s been here longer than anyone. The Vice pulses under her gaze.

She jerks her chin toward the booth tucked behind the pillar near the piano. Private enough.

I take the long route, weaving through smoke and noise, ignoring the eyes that glance too long. She’s already sliding in when I reach the booth, drink in hand.

“You only crawl out of the dark when someone’s bleeding,” she says.

“That’s most days lately.”

She snorts. “Yeah, well, your face says it’s more than the usual bullshit tonight.”

“Need a favor.”

She exhales slow through her nose. “Of course you do.”

I nod to her drink. “That mine?”

“Nope.”

“Figures.”

I wave off a server and settle in. The booth creaks. The seat’s sticky. Still feels better than the rest of the place.

“Alright,” she says. “Who do I need to lie about?”

---