Page 17 of Veil of Smoke

“You sure?”

“He’s not the problem.”

Rita raises her brows. “No?”

“No,” I say, eyes still locked on the glass. “The girl is.”

The man behind me moves. Two tables back. Gray suit, short beard, keeps one hand inside his jacket like he’s just resting it there.

He’s not.

Across the room, another one enters through the rear booth door. Bulkier. Hoodie pulled up. No drink in hand. No interest in the band. He sees me, and keeps walking. Dead-on approach.

I glance at Rita. She doesn’t react.

The guy by the bar shifts again.

I flip a nearby table.

It crashes loud, fast, chairs toppling. The man in the hoodie is already lunging.

His punch misses my face by an inch, cracks into the back wall with a solid thud. Bottles rattle.

I grab a serving tray from a nearby bus bin, slam it into the side of his head. He stumbles, but doesn’t go down.

He grins like he enjoys it.

Another fist comes—sloppy this time. I duck, slam my elbow into his ribs. He grunts. I pivot and grab a bottle from an empty table, snap the neck off on the edge.

I jam it into his thigh.

He screams.

Blood sprays onto the floor, slick and fast. He grabs at the wound. I shove him into a server’s cart, send plates crashing.

Behind me, the suit is moving in.

“Valtieri!” he barks. “Don’t make it worse.”

“Already past that,” I mutter.

He pulls the gun—small, quick. I charge. Slam him into the bar hard enough to rattle the shelves. He grits out a curse and tries to aim. I drive my forearm into his wrist, the gun clatters to the floor. He scrambles for it.

I elbow his face. Hard. His nose splits. Blood covers his shirt.

He doesn’t scream. Just groans, dazed.

From behind the bar, Rita snarls, “You better not bleed on my register.”

She ducks and re-emerges with a bat. Metal. Regulation weight.

She tosses it over.

I catch it mid-air and turn.

The heavy’s back on his feet, limping. He pulls a knife from his waistband.

“Come on, then,” he growls.

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