Page 20 of Veil of Smoke

A cop’s daughter. Of course.

That explains part of it. The way she carries herself. The control. The detachment.

But not all of it.

Corradino won’t let this die.

If he can’t get to me, he’ll go through her.

And I’m done playing defense.

I push off the wall and walk.

Chapter 5 – Viviana

The deadbolt slides into place. I test it twice—out of habit, not trust.

The shop’s gone quiet behind me. Shadows stretch across the floor, wrapping around empty vases and forgotten petals. The scent of freesia still lingers, but even that feels thin now. Faked peace.

I hook my apron over the stool and grab the trash bag. It’s heavier than usual. Too many stems, too many pieces of the day I’d rather forget.

The alley’s colder than it should be. Wind slips beneath my collar like a warning. The security light overhead flutters, then dims into a sickly orange. A rusted dumpster crouches crooked in the back corner, slick with sleet.

I cross the wet pavement and heave the bag into it. Something inside breaks. Maybe glass. The crash is loud. Too loud.

Behind me, footsteps.

Not hurried. Not rushed. Steady. Two pairs.

I straighten slowly and turn.

Two men stand at the mouth of the alley. One leans against the wall like he’s settling in for a long conversation. The other blocks the exit entirely. Both are clean, pressed, too still.

Not muggers. Not random.

“Evening,” the tall one says with a faint smile. His voice scrapes like gravel.

I don’t respond. I look down at his shoes—black leather, scuffed but polished. Imported.

“You always take out the trash yourself?” he asks, taking a step forward.

I tighten my grip on the edge of the dumpster but say nothing.

The shorter one pulls something from his coat. It catches the alley light—thin, sharp. A knife.

“You don’t remember us?” the tall one asks. “That’s cold.”

His partner chuckles and adds, “We saw you at the docks. You had that pretty little card in your hand.”

He’s still moving. A slow arc around me.

“Red Thorn,” the shorter one says, as if it’s a punchline.

I bolt left, aiming for the narrow gap beside the dumpster. A hand snags my elbow before I’m two steps in.

I ram my elbow back, catch a gut. He grunts, but doesn’t let go. My other hand rakes at his cheek. He swears and recoils.

Then the tall one grabs me from behind, wraps an arm around my neck. Not tight enough to choke—just to trap.

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