Page 77 of Veil of Smoke

I move through the crowd. My boots scrape the sticky floor, shoulders brushing strangers. I stop at the bar, just out of his reach—close enough to talk, far enough to dodge if he moves.

“Heard you’ve been making… creative choices lately,” Marco says. His voice slides smooth, edged with a cut.

I lean on the bar, elbows braced. “You mean surviving? Yeah. It’s a habit.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Caldera doesn’t like habits. They like obedience.”

I watch him sip finally. The bartender pushes a bourbon my way—neat, amber. I don’t touch it, keep my fingers flat on the wood.

“Be careful, kid,” Marco says, setting his glass down. “Vultures don’t just pick at the dead. Sometimes they help make the corpse.”

The warning lands sharp, cold and heavy. I don’t flinch, just hold his gaze until he looks away first. He signals the bartender for another round, casual as hell.

I leave my drink untouched and push off the bar. My boots hit the floor hard. The crowd presses in, bodies swaying to the jazz, but I feel their eyes on me.

I weave through, scanning every face. A Caldera grunt in a corner booth shifts, his head angled my way. Another near the stage pretends to watch the band, but his hand rests too close to his hip.

My fists curl at my sides. They’re everywhere tonight, scattered like rats waiting for a signal. Marco’s stare sees into me without me turning—he’s measuring me, for a box or a bullet.

He knows something I don’t, or he’s betting I’ll crack first. I wipe my hands on my jeans. They’re steady, but my pulse isn’t, hammering fast under my skin.

I’ve survived worse—knife fights, ambushes, nights I shouldn’t have walked away from. This feels different, tighter, uglier. Tommy sits near the stage, nursing a beer—he used to tip me off when jobs went bad, but now he won’t meet my eyes.

Fuck. That’s three tonight who’ve turned cold. My chest tightens, paranoia sinking its teeth in deeper.

I push off the wall where I’ve stopped, boots firm on the floor. Marco’s talking to the bartender now, laughing low. The sound grates, like glass on stone, and I stop near a pillar, half-hidden.

The crowd swells, jazz climbing higher. Smoke stings my eyes, thick and bitter. A woman brushes past, her perfume cheap and sharp, her date flashing Caldera ink on his knuckles as he pulls her away.

My fingers twitch. I could slip out the back, vanish into the wind outside, but that’s not me anymore. Too much rides on this—Viviana, the docks, the plans we’ve carved into each other.

Marco knows it too. That’s why he’s here, why they’re all here. I catch his eye again across the room.

He lifts his glass, a mock toast. I don’t nod back this time, just stare, letting him see I’m not running. He sets the glass down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and turns to the bartender like I’m nothing.

I’m not nothing—not to Caldera, not to him. I feel the shift, cold and pressing against my spine. They’re not just watching—they’re waiting for me to trip, to bleed, to give them a reason.

I straighten up and move toward the bar again. Marco glances my way, eyebrow lifting as I stop closer this time, right in his space.

“You got something to say?” I ask, voice low and edged. He smiles, thin and icy.

“Just watching the show, kid,” he says.

“There’s no show,” I reply, stepping in tighter.

“Not yet,” he says, sipping again. I lean in, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Keep watching,” I tell him. “You’ll see how I end it.”

He laughs, short and dry. “Good luck with that.”

I step back and turn away. My heart pounds, but my hands stay steady as I move off.

The crowd sways, jazz filling the room. I feel their eyes—Marco’s, Tommy’s, every Caldera bastard here. They’re vultures, like he said, but I’m not a corpse yet.

I head for the back, shoulders squared. Need space, need to think this through.

The music swells, brass biting high. Smoke clouds my vision, but I keep moving, steady and sure.

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