Page 106 of Veil of Smoke

Chapter 26 – Dario

I ease through the side corridor of the Caldera Syndicate’s final stronghold. It is a decaying opera theater turned into their makeshift war-room, my boots pressing silent against the chipped tile floor.

Viviana moves tight beside me, both of us clad in black, armed light with knives and pistols, no bulky vests or rifles. We’re not soldiers tonight. We’re assassins, shadows cutting through the dark.

The clock’s just ticked past midnight, and the theater looms around us, gothic and broken, its bones sagging under years of neglect.

Chandeliers hang shattered overhead, their crystals glinting faintly in the dark, while moth-eaten velvet curtains droop from rusted rods.

Stage lights, jury-rigged into floodlights, sweep harsh beams across the barricaded main floor, crates and sandbags piled high in jagged rows.

Smoke curls thick through the corridors, a bitter haze stinging my eyes, and every step I take echoes too loud off the crumbling walls.

Thunder rolls outside, a low growl rattling the theater’s frame. Wind howls through shattered stained-glass windows, jagged edges catching the faint city glow, throwing fractured colors across the floor.

The night feels fated, heavy with purpose, like it’s been holding its breath for this.

I catch the distant rumble out front, T-Bone and his two crew setting up the diversion. The old van they’ve rigged explodes at the lobby entrance, a thunderous blast that shakes the ground, glass raining down in a sharp cascade.

I count the seconds in my head, thirty, our narrow window to strike before Caldera’s crew regroups.

Viviana’s eyes meet mine, green and fierce through the smoke, and she nods, sharp and sure. We split without a word, her heading up a tight stairwell to the mezzanine, me dropping into the orchestra pit below.

The pit’s a black hole, shadows pooling deep around overturned chairs and broken music stands, and every step I take bounces off the curved walls, a hollow sound I can’t choke down.

There’s no clean kill left. No elegant exit. Just fire and ruin. Just us. Just them. The thought claws at me, raw and jagged, a truth I’ve known since Massimo’s ghost started haunting these fights.

I crouch low, weaving through the debris, my pistol steady in my grip, the weight of it familiar, grounding.

Floodlights sweep overhead, their beams slicing through the haze, missing me by inches, and I hear shouts from the main floor, Caldera’s men barking orders, their voices tight with panic.

I glance up, catching Viviana’s silhouette on the mezzanine, a shadow moving fast among the velvet aisles.

She closes on one of Corradino’s top lieutenants, his broad frame pacing the railing, a radio crackling in his hand.

She strikes, wire garrote flashing around his throat, the rope pulled taut in her grip. He thrashes, hands clawing at nothing, his face purpling, but she holds firm, her stance calm, precise, a hunter’s focus in her eyes.

He slumps, lifeless, without a sound, and she kicks his body behind a crate, out of sight.

“He’s down,” she calls, her voice steady, cutting through the smoke, her eyes sharper than flame. I nod, pushing forward, the pit’s edge rough under my hands as I vault out.

Gunfire erupts out front, a staccato burst, and I hear T-Bone’s voice break through, a gritted curse loud over the chaos.

He’s hit, a bullet tearing into his shoulder near the sound booth, and I see him stumble, dragging himself behind a sandbag wall, blood soaking his sleeve.

I move fast, dodging a floodlight’s arc, and clear a path to him, my knife flashing as a Caldera grunt staggers into my line.

I slash deep across his throat, blood spraying hot across my arm, and he crumples, gurgling, his body hitting a crate with a dull thud.

“T-Bone,” I say, dropping beside him, checking the wound. Blood pulses dark from his shoulder, staining his jacket, but he grits his teeth, shoving my hand away with a weak push.

“You finish this,” he says, voice rough, pain carving lines into his face. “Go.”

“We all walk out,” I say, gripping his arm, pulling him tighter behind the sandbags. “Or no one does.”

He nods, a flicker of defiance in his eyes, and I turn, scanning the theater through the thickening smoke. Flames erupt along the back curtain, a Molotov crashing from a Caldera lieutenant’s hand, glass shattering loud, fire licking up the velvet in greedy tongues.

The heat slams into me, a wall of it, and I feel the war tighten around us, a burning box we’ve locked ourselves inside.

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