Page 76 of Veil of Smoke

“That was…” he starts, then stops.

“A claim,” I finish.

He huffs a laugh. “Felt like it.”

We settle together. The quiet wraps us, thick with something more than lust.

Power. Trust. Something forged in blood and fire.

His hand strokes my side, tracing my ribs, my hip, like he’s learning me back. I let him. Not for comfort. For the power it gives me.

“I’ve never let anyone take me like that,” he says, voice low.

I press my lips to his chest. “Good. I’m the only one who gets to.”

His nose brushes my temple. “What if that’s not just a game?”

I meet his eyes. “Then you saw me. All of me.”

And he did.

Tonight isn’t pretend. It’s truth. I took him not to prove something, but to own it—us, this, the danger we’ve become.

No masks. No roles. Just us—raw, real, unbreakable.

The jazz fades as the record stops.

I rise. Slip the silk dress back on, zipping it slow. Step into my heels, one then the other.

He watches, sprawled out, shirt open, jeans still undone. Doesn’t move. Just stares like I’m a vision.

I pause at the curtain. “Tomorrow, we plan.”

“Yes we do,” he says, voice steady.

I nod. “But tonight—”

“You ruled me,” he finishes, eyes locked on mine.

I smile, small and sure. “No. I ruled us.”

And I mean every word.

Chapter 16 – Dario

I shove through the door of Velvet Vice. Brass cuts sharp through the haze tonight. Bass thumps steady, like a pulse I can’t shake. Cigar smoke twists upward, staining the red and amber neon along the walls. Glasses clink somewhere in the swarm of bodies.

Wind screams outside, battering the brick windows. Inside, it’s hot, sour with sweat and a bite I don’t like. It’s not just smoke tonight—something’s off, like loyalty gone bad.

I roll my shoulders and act calm, but I’m not. This place smells wrong, and my skin still buzzes from her, from last night. I scan the room, eyes darting over the booths. Caldera affiliates litter the space—faces I know, hands I’ve gripped.

They used to nod my way, a quick sign of respect. Now their eyes slide past me, locked on their drinks or the women draped over them. My spine stiffens. Too many exits, too many backs turned.

I spot Marco at the bar. He’s alone, whiskey gleaming in a glass he hasn’t touched. Old-school Caldera, my handler back when I was green. His smile curves sharp, like he’s already seen my endgame.

Our eyes lock across the room. I lift my chin, bare minimum greeting. He raises his glass but doesn’t drink. A cold twist hits my gut—I’ve seen that look before.

It’s the shift from asset to liability. I’ve watched it play out—blood on concrete, trust cut out with a blade. Marco’s eyes say I’m there now, teetering on the drop.

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