Page 116 of Veil of Smoke

Dario sets the vase down, his hand brushing mine, and I feel it, the quiet power of this, us, standing where we’ve planted ourselves.

The lilies nod in their vase, bold and bright, and I trim one more, setting it beside the marigolds, a balance I’ve learned to trust.

The light dims just enough to paint gold across the pavement. Most of the day’s bouquets are gone, their cellophane wrappers rustling as customers tucked them into bike baskets or walked them home like promises. The street has quieted into a kind of easy hush—cars drifting slow, kids trailing their parents with bubblegum stuck to their sneakers, music playing low from an apartment above the corner laundromat.

I sit on a crate outside the shop, legs stretched, coffee cradled between both palms. The door behind me clicks shut as Dario settles beside me with a groan and a second cup. His jeans are streaked with soil. He’s tracking dirt everywhere, but I don’t care. I like the mess we make. It’s ours.

A kid on a rusted BMX rides past, a bouquet poking from their backpack. Tiger lilies, wrapped haphazardly. They’re probably for a teacher. Or a girl. Or a grave. I don’t need to know which. The fact that they’re leaving the shop at all—that’s enough.

Dario nudges me with his elbow, and I lean in, resting my head on his shoulder. He’s warm, steady. Still smells like rosemary and sweat.

“I used to think this place was my prison,” I say, voice low. “The windows. The routine. Even the damn peonies. I thought I was trapped.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just sips his coffee, then glances down at my hands—still a little raw, calloused in all the right places. “Now?”

“Now it feels like armor.”

He hums. A sound like agreement.

“You built this out of the ashes,” he says.

I tilt my head, looking up at him through lashes still dusty from the day. “We did.”

He smiles at that. The real kind. Not the quick quirk he throws when he’s deflecting. This one stays. Lingers like summer heat.

Down the street, a sharp honk slices through the quiet. A cherry-red convertible speeds by—Rita behind the wheel, her sunglasses crooked, a croissant held triumphantly out the window like a trophy. She doesn’t stop. Just shouts, “You owe me wine!” before vanishing around the corner in a screech of music and tire smoke.

My phone buzzes a second later.

T-Bone: Jazz van’s got a liquor license. First shipment coming. Hope you stocked mixers, boss.

I hand the phone to Dario. He reads it, chuckles.

“We’re legitimate now,” he says. “Mostly.”

I bump his knee with mine. “Speak for yourself.”

The coffee’s almost gone, but neither of us moves. The wind picks up, soft but sure. Petals swirl down the sidewalk, catching on the curb like they’re choosing where to fall. I watch them with a strange kind of affection—like they’re part of me.

The shop lights hum behind us. The new sign above the door sways a little in the breeze. Ash & Bloom. It fits. Not because it’s clever or pretty. Because it’s true.

I feel planted.

Not trapped. Not chained.

Chosen.

We sit there until the stars start showing. Until the scent of jasmine and truck oil and faint sugar from next door blends into something that smells like home.

I don’t need a perfect ending.

I don’t even need a happy one.

Just this.

Chapter 30 – Dario

I stand at the edge of the Chicago pier, the wooden beams cool under my boots. Viviana’s beside me, barefoot, her boots dangling loose from one hand, swaying with each breath of the night.

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