Page 103 of Veil of Secrets

He reaches out, taking my hand. His palm is rough, familiar, comforting. “No more cages, Elara.”

“No more,” I echo firmly. “We ended that tonight.”

He squeezes my hand lightly, reassurance solid and wordless between us. “Marco’s gone, but it doesn’t stop here. His crew won’t lie down easy.”

“Let them come,” I say fiercely, gripping his hand tighter. “They won’t find us hiding.”

A brief smile ghosts across his lips, pride mingling with grim resolve. “Never again.”

The words settle between us, a promise more binding than blood. I step into him, feeling the heat of his body grounding me in this moment, this choice. We’re not done yet—not even close—but tonight was a victory we both desperately needed.

“Ours,” I whisper softly, more to myself than to him.

“Ours,” he repeats, quiet and firm, the promise burning bright in his eyes.

Standing here, amidst the blood and steel, I realize I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m choosing—choosing him, choosing myself, choosing this life on my own terms.

Marco’s reign of control lies broken at our feet, ashes scattered and forgotten.

He tried to destroy us.

He failed.

Now, we rise.

We’re about to turn toward the heavy steel door when a voice shatters the quiet.

“Boss!” the man screams, panic cracking his voice like shattered glass.

He barrels through the vault door with wild eyes and a trembling pistol. His face is flushed red, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. He freezes for a fraction of a second, staring at Marco’s twisted body sprawled lifeless across the polished floor, disbelief widening his eyes.

The man recovers fast, anger twisting his expression into something raw and desperate. He raises the gun higher, searching wildly for a target. He finds me first, lips curling in disgust.

“You!” he spits venomously, pistol shaking in his unsteady grip. “You did this!”

I’m already moving before he can squeeze the trigger, adrenaline pulsing white-hot in my veins. No hesitation, no second thoughts—just instinct, pure and brutal.

“Wrong room,” I snarl, pivoting sharply and closing the distance in two swift strides.

My fist crashes into his face with all the pent-up rage and strength I’ve stored through years of surviving men exactly like him. Bone shatters with a wet crunch beneath my knuckles. Blood erupts from his broken nose, splattering my hand, warm and slick. His scream cuts off mid-note, twisted into a choking gasp of agony. The pistol falls uselessly to the floor, clattering away.

He staggers back, dazed, half-conscious. His shattered face is a mess of blood and swelling flesh, eyes barely able to focus through the pain.

Nico moves instantly, blade flashing faster than my eyes can track. The thug barely has time to realize what’s happening before the blade slices neatly across his chest, opening him clean and deep. Blood sprays hot and dark, splattering Nico’s shirt. The thug collapses, twitching helplessly as the life drains from him, pooling crimson across the polished steel floor.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the steady drip of blood and the distant hum of jazz from above. The vault returns to an eerie calm, death hanging thick in the stale, metallic room. Nico stands over the thug’s body, face calm, posture unchanged. The blade glints wetly in his hand, still dripping blood. I take a deep, steadying breath, my pulse gradually slowing.

Nico finally looks at me, eyes intense yet reassuring. “He really thought this place could protect him.”

I stare down at the body, unflinching. “Nothing protects rot.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Nico’s lips. He nods slowly, approvingly. “No, it doesn’t.”

I step closer, carefully avoiding the spreading blood as I reach out for Nico’s hand. His fingers curl around mine immediately, strong and sure. There’s a firmness to his grip that grounds me in the reality of what we've just done.

The vault door groans shut behind us with a low, metallic clang, sealing off Marco’s bloody legacy. No more guards. No more threats. Just silence, punctuated by our measured breaths and the dripping echoes of fresh death.

I exhale deeply, feeling something inside me finally loosen. The pressure I've carried for so long—the constant vigilance, the expectation of betrayal—finally starts to fade. Marco's gone. Tommy's dead. The scars they left might never vanish entirely, but they no longer control me. The shadows they cast are finally fading into nothing.

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