Page 23 of Veil of Smoke

“What does?” he asks.

“This,” I say. “Every time, it’s the same. Hands shaking. Back to the wall. Someone reaching for the kill.”

He watches me for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand. Doesn’t touch me—just waits.

I let him.

His fingers brush the side of my cheek. I lean in, just slightly. His touch is careful, like I’ll vanish.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“No shit,” I whisper.

He lets his hand drop, but doesn’t back away.

“I’ve got a car nearby,” he says.

“And if I don’t come?” I ask.

“I stay,” he replies.

“That’s not helpful,” I mutter.

“It’s not meant to be.”

I wipe at my face. “So you’re my shadow now?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“And after you save me again?” I ask.

He meets my eyes. “After that, we shall see.”

Dario hasn’t spoken since we left the alley. He drives like he thinks ahead of the street. Like the city bends for him. Every turn is smooth. Efficient. Not a second wasted.

He pulls the car into a side alley beside what looks like a condemned garage. A faded sign above the shutter reads Ramon’s Tires in chipped red paint.

He cuts the ignition. The silence isn’t quiet—it buzzes in my head.

“You live here?” I ask, my voice low.

“No,” he says. “But it’s safe.”

“From who?”

He opens his door. “Everyone.”

I get out slowly, cradling my palm, now wrapped in gauze. The wind bites through my jacket. Dario’s already at the rusted door of the garage, punching in a code on a metal box mounted beside it. The lock releases with a metallic clack.

Inside smells like old oil and colder plans. A cot sits in the corner, rumpled but unused. A folding table holds a burner phone, a Glock, a box of latex gloves, and half a bottle of whiskey. The floor is concrete, cracked. The windows are painted over from the inside.

I hover just inside the doorway.

“You’ve done this before,” I say.

Dario glances at me. “Done what?”

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