Page 9 of Veil of Smoke

The thorns don’t draw blood today.

I work slower than usual. That’s fine. No rush. The regulars won’t show for another hour. I’ve built a rhythm over the years—schoolteachers after drop-off, nurses between shifts, grieving husbands who hover and don’t speak.

They all come eventually.

But my hands are trembling.

I stop pretending.

It replays behind my eyes whether I want it to or not. The man with the gun. The body hitting the dock. Dario’s voice—too calm, too sharp. His face lit by red smoke, blood at his boots.

You shouldn’t have come here, Red Thorn.

My apron strings knot too tight. I untie and retie them.

I reach for the delivery slip still sitting behind the counter. Crisp, stained faintly near the edge where my palm caught blood last night.

I should burn it.

Instead, I slide it into the drawer.

The phone sits next to the register.

I stare at it.

Call the cops. That’s what normal people do. That’s what people raised on justice and procedure and consequences do. That’s what Dad would’ve done.

But I didn’t see a name. I didn’t hear one. There’s no camera at the dock. No trace of the man who bled out five feet away. Just fear and the way Dario looked at me like I was already part of it.

I brush a marigold into place, pressing the stem deeper into foam.

The door opens.

Ignazio Hale steps in with the wind behind him. Sharp coat, tighter smile. He always smells like expensive soap and a hint of tobacco he pretends he doesn’t smoke. Clean-cut. Crisp lines. The kind of man who fits too easily anywhere he walks.

“Morning,” he says. “Did I miss the good batch?”

I give him my best version of okay. “You’re early.”

“Bad habit.”

He wanders toward the sunflowers. Doesn’t touch them. He never does. He always leaves with roses—deep burgundy, like bruises pressed into velvet.

“They for your aunt again?” I ask.

He smiles, amused. “Of course. She’s addicted to flowers now. I’m entirely to blame.”

I laugh because that’s what he expects. He’s always polite. Always pays in cash.

And always notices too much.

He looks at me now—really looks.

“You alright?”

I nod. “Fine. Just tired.”

His gaze lingers on the counter. On the drawer, slightly ajar.

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