Page 14 of Veil of Smoke

I pull a folded napkin from my coat pocket. Slide it across.

She doesn’t touch it. Just scans the note—block letters, tight script.

Female. Mid-twenties. Black hair. Green eyes. South Side florist. No crew. Possible civilian. Saw a hit. Didn’t run.

Rita lifts one brow. Then looks at me.

“She yours?”

“No.”

“She alive?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She picks up her glass. “Let’s keep it that way.”

“I need to know who she is.”

“She’s clean. I’ve seen her before. Comes into the market near Roosevelt sometimes. Doesn’t talk much. Carries herself like she’s got a spine but doesn’t flaunt it.”

“She didn’t scream when the guy hit the floor. She didn’t look away. She stayed long enough to see me wipe the knife clean.”

“She a runner?”

“No.”

“That’s rare.”

I sip the bourbon the server drops off. “She saw the blood, saw the body—and didn’t even flinch. Not once.”

“That’s trauma, Dario. Not training. People like her—they’ve already survived worse.”

I watch her.

“She’s not in this life,” Rita says. “And if she is now, it’s because someone pulled her into it without permission.”

“She got a note. Red Thorn. Delivered to her shop.”

Rita’s expression stills. “You sure?”

“She showed it to me herself.”

“That’s not good.”

“Yeah.” I say.

“She wasn’t meant to get it.”

“No.”

“She got someone else’s message.”

“Or someone wanted her there.”

Rita drinks again. “She said anything since?”

“No. Haven’t seen her.”

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