Page 63 of Veil of Smoke

He frowns.

“If you come in behind me, it’ll draw his eye. If I go alone, he sees a girl. Not a threat.”

He doesn’t argue. Just watches me a second longer, then asks, “Do you want him alive?”

I don’t look at him when I answer. “No.”

I unfold the scissors in my palm. They snap open with a soft bite, blades catching a stray glint of rooftop light. I wind the wire tighter around my other hand, looping it twice. Then I rise.

Dario speaks low. “Say the word, I’ll end it.”

“I already did,” I say, and walk toward the edge.

Smoke swirls around the burning crates like it’s alive—dancing, hungry, drifting between broken beams and twisted shadows. The stench of charred wood clings to my skin, mixing with sweat and the copper scent of nerves. Somewhere behind me, Dario waits. But he isn’t my focus now.

He said the runner’s name is Raff. Small-time courier, known to Caldera. Talks fast, runs faster. Corradino trusts him just enough to let him live. Which means I can’t.

The steel wire coils around my fingers as I move, knees bent, back low, boots quiet against gravel. I keep to the darker edge of the lot, where the smoke thickens and light barely reaches.

Raff walks like he owns the yard. Loose shoulders. Hoodie half-zipped. Head down, earbuds in. He kicks at a stone and mutters something to himself—probably about what he’s carrying. Probably about where he’s going.

I step behind a crate, wait. One beat. Two.

He passes.

I step out.

The wire tightens around his throat before he makes a sound. He stumbles back into me. I brace, digging my heels in, arms straining to hold him steady. He jerks, claws at his neck. I keep my stance, elbows locked. He thrashes harder.

His shoulder slams into my chin. My vision flashes white.

I don’t loosen.

He elbows me in the ribs. My breath catches.

Still, I don’t let go.

He’s taller. Stronger. He surges back, trying to throw me off.

I let him pull us both down.

We hit the dirt hard. My knee scrapes against gravel, but the fall lets me shift—lets me move faster.

With one hand still on the wire, I reach into my coat. Fingers close around the scissors.

I don’t think. I plunge the blade into his neck.

Once. Again.

Blood spurts in a hot burst across my hand.

He jerks violently—then stills.

I freeze. The scissors still in my grip. His body heavy, unmoving.

The smoke billows again. A gust shifts it toward me. I don’t move.

He gurgles once, faint. Then stops.

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