Page 47 of Veil of Smoke

“Then we hunt him down.”

My throat tightens, but not with fear.

With resolve.

I lean back against the van wall again and close my eyes.

My hands are still stained.

But now, they’re mine.

Chapter 10 – Dario

The alley behind Rossa’s Tap smells like mildew, old whiskey, and memories I can’t wash off.

Viviana walks beside me, arms tucked into her jacket, eyes sharp even though her hands are buried in her pockets. We haven’t said much since the pier. Not since she killed that man and didn’t break apart after.

She’s walking different now. Shoulders back. Chin up.

The storm inside her hasn’t passed—it’s just started taking shape.

I push the metal door open and let her step in first.

The bar’s long closed. Dust clings to the cracked vinyl stools like it never learned to settle. A single red light bleeds through the window slats. The smell of stale beer lingers under the colder scent of winter pressing against the walls.

She pauses in the doorway.

“This where you’re hiding the rest of the bodies?” she asks lightly.

I nod toward the backroom. “Just the ones that matter.”

She doesn’t smile, but her eyes flick to me—watching, measuring.

I lead her past overturned chairs and old crates. A space heater clicks to life in the corner, more noise than warmth.

The room at the back hasn’t changed since the night everything went sideways. Cracked floor. Splintered table shoved against the wall. One bulb overhead, hanging by a wire, casting long shadows over the pockmarked concrete.

“This is it?” she asks, stepping inside.

“Yeah.”

Her voice is quiet. “The drop that went bad.”

I nod once. “The place Massimo bled out.”

She doesn’t move to sit. Just looks around. Like she’s memorizing it. Like she’s seeing it through my eyes before I can even say the words.

I don’t know what made me bring her here. Maybe I’m tired of carrying this memory around like it still belongs to me. Maybe I want her to see the wreckage up close, so she understands why I keep waking up with blood on my hands and ghosts in my chest.

Maybe I just want to see if she’ll leave.

She doesn’t.

I pull the manifest from my jacket and set it on the table. The pages are creased from too many hours of tracing the codes like they’ll spell out salvation if I just read them in the right light.

Viviana steps closer. Her fingertips graze the paper. “This line—SP-7. It’s linked to the earlier shipment, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Same origin trail. Just relabeled.”

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