Page 83 of Veil of Smoke

“She wore black nail polish even when it chipped off by day two. Thought tarot cards were real, swore she could tell when people were lying—just by the way they blinked.”

Dario tilts his head. “Could she?”

I nod. “Every time.”

We fall quiet again.

But it’s not empty.

Outside, the haze is starting to lift, bleeding into weak sun. Light scatters across the floor in gray shards. The kind that doesn’t warm. Just outlines what’s been there too long.

Dario pockets the locket. Not with ceremony—just with certainty. Like he’s tucked a blade there. Or a vow.

“I’ve been burning things for years,” he says. “Mostly bridges. Sometimes people.” He glances toward the door. “This’ll be different.”

“Why?” I ask.

He looks at me.

“Because it matters this time.”

And I believe him.

We sit there a little longer, not speaking. Just breathing in the cold air of a house that never learned how to let go of its ghosts.

I reach out finally and rest my fingers lightly on his knee. Not to ground myself—but to ground him. We’re not drowning anymore. We’re circling a storm we chose.

Dario covers my hand with his.

It’s not romantic. Not dramatic.

It’s real.

A warning to the world that what’s coming won’t be stopped with rules or mercy or a name like Caldera.

It ends now.

With us.

Chapter 18 – Dario

I crouch low behind a rusted shipping container in the Chicago yard. Pale blue light creeps over the stacked metal crates, dawn breaking cold and thin across the horizon.

Wind whistles low between the rows, biting at my face.

Viviana’s ahead, perched in a blind spot near the front gate. She’s dressed like a dock clerk—gray jacket, clipboard in hand, cap pulled low over her dark hair.

We move like ghosts, no noise, just purpose. I flash two fingers—move up—and she nods, sharp and quick, her eyes catching mine for a beat.

A guard slouches near the target crate, cigarette dangling from his lips. His boots scuff the gravel, careless, like he’s bored out of his skull.

I circle wide, keeping my steps light on the damp ground. The pack presses against my ribs, loaded with enough juice to gut Caldera’s edge.

Viviana steps into view, clipboard slipping from her hands. Papers scatter, and she stammers, “You want to check the manifest yourself? I’ve got it logged—wrong lot number. Just a second…”

The guard leans in, grunting as he bends to grab a sheet. She’s not just my lookout—she’s my anchor, my eyes in this dark maze.

I slip behind the crate, my breath shallow but steady. The lock’s rusted, stubborn—I jam the pick in, twist hard, and it clicks open with a soft snap.

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