Page 62 of Veil of Smoke

He nods. Doesn’t look convinced.

“They’re late,” I add.

“They’re always late. That one—” he points toward the far alley beyond the fence—“Raff Delano. Runner. Been with Caldera since he was seventeen. Thinks he’s untouchable.”

“He deliver messages?”

“Sometimes drugs. Sometimes girls.”

I look at the smoldering crate again, at the way the flames twist orange around broken metal. “And now he delivers a warning.”

Dario glances sideways. “You sure you want it to be you?”

“I already said yes.”

“That was back there,” he says, motioning vaguely toward the street behind us. “Before the flames. Before the quiet settled in. This—” he taps a finger lightly against the rusted rail, “this part doesn’t wait for second thoughts.”

I meet his gaze. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

He holds my stare a second longer, like he’s reading between my ribs.

“Then I’m just here to clean up,” he says finally. “You sure you don’t want a gun?”

I shake my head. “Guns make noise.”

“You’re not worried about getting close?”

“I’m counting on it.”

He chuckles, barely audible, but there’s no amusement in it. “You scare me more every day.”

I let that hang.

The wind cuts through my coat. I don’t flinch.

From below, embers crackle. A plank of charred wood snaps inward with a muted thud. The only other sound is our breathing and the hum of the city muffled by distance.

Dario shifts again. “Why scissors?”

“They’re mine,” I say. “I’ve used them longer than I’ve ever held a weapon. Every florist learns pressure and precision. Cuts that hold. Stems bleed if you do it right.”

He blinks slowly, then looks down at my hand. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I’m about to cut something.”

I wait.

We both do.

The stillness presses in. Minutes pass. Ash drifts. Somewhere, a horn blares two short notes from far down the highway.

Dario glances at his watch. “He’ll take the north corridor,” he says. “He always does. Loops behind the burned-out delivery trucks and comes through the gate. Walks like he owns the ground. He doesn’t look up.”

“Good.”

“I’ll follow east, give you cover.”

“No,” I say. “You stay here.”

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