Page 95 of Veil of Smoke

We sit there, pressed close, the storm a steady hum around us. The war’s here, in this room, in our blood, and I’m not running.

Lightning flashes one last time, faint and far. I feel his breath, steady against me, and I know—we’re bound now, deeper than before.

I can still hear the echo of Marco’s body hitting the stone.

I scrub his blood off my hands in the sink.

It takes longer than it should.

Not because I’m hesitating. I just want it gone. From my skin, my nails, the cracks in my palm. I want the red to run clear, so there’s nothing between me and what comes next.

Dario leans against the wall, one leg braced on a chair, shirt half-buttoned, gauze wrapping his side like a surrender flag. He watches me, but he doesn’t speak. He knows what this is.

Not a breakdown. Not grief.

A reckoning.

When I finally turn from the sink, my knuckles are raw, but my voice is steady. “We finish this.”

He straightens.

I keep going. “Not for revenge. Not even for Camila or Massimo. Not because Caldera deserves it.” My throat catches for a second, just once, then clears. “For us. Because no one else is going to burn this down but us.”

Lightning flares across the ceiling, a jagged reflection in the mirror bolted to the wall. In it, I look like a stranger. Damp hair, dark eyes, lips pressed together—not hard, just firm.

I reach into my jacket pocket. Pull out my blade. It’s nothing fancy. Just a pocketknife, black handle, dull edge. But it does what it needs to do.

Dario doesn’t flinch when I walk toward him.

I stop a foot away. Flip the blade open.

“This is the last promise I’ll make,” I say. “We end this—together.”

I draw the line across my palm.

It hurts. But I don’t blink.

Blood wells quickly, warm and immediate.

I extend my hand.

He looks down at it for a beat—then takes the knife. No questions. No speeches.

He slices a line across his own hand, hisses quietly, then presses his palm to mine.

Our blood mixes between our fingers. It drips from the grooves of our knuckles, runs down to our wrists. Thunder cracks again, sharper this time, as if the sky’s answering the deal.

We don’t speak for a while.

Foreheads hover inches apart.

His breath brushes mine.

There’s no kiss.

Just the pact. In our blood. On our terms.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. “You don’t need me to protect you anymore.”

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