Page 29 of Veil of Smoke

Her legs give out, and we sink into the cushion, tangled together. She’s still shaking, breath ragged, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers trace my arm, lazy now, and I feel her heartbeat against my chest, wild but slowing.

I lift my head, meeting her eyes. They’re soft, unguarded, and something knots in my gut.

We stay there, bare skin sticking to bare skin, the city humming outside. Rain hits the windows, a steady drone, but it’s distant. Her cheek rests on my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. My hand finds that spot under her shoulder blade, tracing it absently.

“You okay?” I ask, voice scraped raw.

She nods, a small shift. “Yeah.”

I expect her to pull back. To rethink this. She doesn’t. Just lies there, alive and real beneath me, and my head’s quiet. No blood. No ghosts. Just her.

I close my eyes.

And for the first time in years, I don’t dream about Massimo bleeding in my arms.

I don’t dream at all.

Chapter 7 – Viviana

The body forgets, but the mind never does.

I woke tangled in his arms this morning. His hand on my hip, breath warm on the back of my neck. For a second, I thought I’d dreamt the whole thing—the alley, the dock, the kill. But then I shifted and winced. The ache in my thighs reminded me exactly what happened.

Dario touched me like no one else ever has. Not because it was tender—though it was—but because it felt like he gave something away to do it. And I took it.

I let him in. Not just his hands or his mouth. I let him look at me like I was something worth protecting.

That terrifies me more than the knife that nearly split my ribs.

Because now we’re both compromised. And I don't know if what happened was survival, chemistry, or the start of a bond I don’t have the strength to carry.

I haven’t seen him since I left the garage. I told him I had deliveries to make. It was a lie. I needed air. Space. A place that was mine before all of this.

So I came back here.

Torrisi Blooms smells like jasmine and rainwater, just like it always did. But everything’s off now. My shop is no longer safe. My basement is no longer quiet. And I’m no longer just a florist.

I carry a box of preserved eucalyptus down the back stairs and stack it on the middle shelf, next to a vase that’s been collecting dust since Camila’s funeral.

Thunder groans above, deep and slow. Rain spatters the basement windows. The humidity down here is always heavier, as if the walls remember too much. I wipe my palms on my apron, though they’re not damp.

The bell chimes upstairs.

My spine stiffens.

Then I hear the footsteps.

Not rushed. Not casual.

Measured.

Ignazio.

He calls down, “Anyone there?”

I school my voice. “Yeah, in the basement.”

He’s already halfway down before I finish the word.

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