Page 69 of Veil of Smoke

I sling the duffel over my shoulder and pull the door open.

Wind slices in. Sharp. I can feel morning not far off.

We stand at the threshold for a moment—between everything we were and everything we’ll have to become to finish this.

“You sure?” I ask.

She turns to me. “No. But I’m not turning back.”

That’s the truth of it. Not courage. Not certainty. Just clarity.

We leave without another word.

Beneath our boots, the frost cracks like glass.

Chapter 15 – Viviana

Velvet Vice pulses beyond the curtains. Low brass drifts through, thick and mournful, like jazz doesn’t give a damn if I’m swaying or breaking. It just keeps playing.

I step through the velvet drape. Black silk clings to me, cool against my skin, a dare I wear like a second pulse. The hem skims the tops of my thighs. No straps hold it up. No armor shields me. Just soft fabric tracing the sharp line of my spine, colder than it ought to be.

I didn’t wear things like this before. Not when I arranged roses behind glass, hands stained with petals and promises. But I wear it now. Because I can. Because I choose to.

He’s already here.

Dario leans against the bookshelf, one shoulder braced on the wall. His shirt hangs half-open, a careless invitation, dark jeans slung low on his hips. Tattoos ripple with every breath, black ink curling over a chest I’ve felt bare against mine—hot, alive, unyielding.

His gaze lifts as I enter. He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t speak.

I like that. The way he holds power in stillness. The way he waits for me to move first.

I close the curtain with two fingers. It slides shut with a soft hiss, sealing us in.

“You’re not Dario,” I say. My voice comes out lighter than usual, edged with a command I didn’t know I owned until tonight.

His brow arches slightly. “No?”

“No.” I cross the room. My heels click once on the hardwood, then sink into the thick rug. “Tonight, you’re a stranger. You saw me across the bar. I told you I was taken.”

He watches me, eyes tracking like a predator savoring the chase. “Then I’m the kind of bastard who doesn’t care.”

“You don’t.”

I move past him. Don’t touch. Let him feel the space where I could’ve brushed him. I reach the side table, where a bottle of red sits, beads of condensation gleaming on the glass. I pour two servings, the liquid dark and heavy. I don’t look at him as I set one glass within his reach.

He doesn’t take it.

Smart. He’s already in the game.

I sit first. Cross my legs. Tilt my chin up. The silk shifts, riding higher on my thigh, and I feel his eyes catch there.

“I’m drunk,” I say, running my tongue along the rim of my glass, tasting the faint bite of wine. “You caught me in a moment of bad judgment.”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “I caught you in a moment of honesty.”

My pulse kicks at my throat. I don’t let it show. I keep the glass steady, fingers curled around the stem.

“Sit,” I tell him, nodding to the chair across from me.

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