Page 109 of Veil of Secrets

When we finally part, his breath whispers warm against my cheek. “Then we’ll face whatever comes. Together.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I reply quietly, settling back against him, heart beating steady despite the lingering threat.

I glance at the silk veil still pooled beside us on the couch. Carefully, I reach out and lift it, holding the delicate fabric gently in my fingers.

“Bride,” Nico whispers, his voice soft and reverent, turning the word into a quiet vow.

“Groom,” I echo gently, the title heavy with the quiet truth we've embraced.

This isn’t a game. This isn’t fantasy. This is us—stripped of masks, woven in vows carved out of blood and trust.

We’re not playing pretend anymore.

We’re just surviving, together.

And tonight, no matter what waits for us in the shadows beyond these walls, that's enough.

Chapter 22 – Nico

I stand over the steel table in the warehouse, its surface scratched and dented, covered in maps of Atlantic City’s docks, streets, and back routes. Blueprints for weapons—knives, guns, things we’ll need—sit stacked to one side, next to a ledger I’ve been gutting for hours. Names crossed out, alliances marked, debts erased. The Drago name’s been poison too long, twisted by my father, by Tommy, by Marco. I’m done letting it rot.

Elara’s beside me. Her eyes track my hands as I mark a route in red ink, connecting the docks to a safehouse we’ve claimed. She doesn’t speak much, but I feel her—steady, sharp, reading every move I make, every word I don’t say.

“Drago’s ours now,” I say, setting the pen down, voice firm. “Not what it was. What we make it.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, studying the map. “Then let’s build it with better bones.”

I nod, marking another spot—a warehouse Marco’s men used to run guns. It’s ours now, or it will be.

Her fingers tap the ledger, flipping to a page I’ve circled—names of men still loyal to Marco’s shadow. “These guys,” she says, pointing. “They’re not gonna let this go.”

I meet her eyes, steady. “They try anything, they’re done. Same as the rest.”

She nods, chain shifting as she straightens. “You’re sure about this? Taking it all back?”

I lean against the table, facing her fully. “I’m sure. This name’s been dragged through blood too long. My father’s deals, Tommy’s greed, Marco’s games—it stops here. We rebuild it clean.”

Her lips curve, faint but real. “Clean’s a big word for people like us.”

“Not clean like saints,” I say, voice low. “Clean like honest. No lies, no betrayal. Just what we stand for.”

She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I’m not leaving. Not when we’ve come this far.”

I step closer, hand brushing her arm, feeling the warmth through her jacket. “Good. Because I’m not doing this without you.”

Her hand covers mine, fingers rough from fights, steady now. “You don’t have to.”

The bulb swings, light catching her face—scars, sharp eyes, the chain she never takes off. She’s not the girl I met in Tommy’s club, dancing to survive. She’s more, always was, and I see it clearer every day.

“You think Luca’s got a handle on the rest?” she asks, glancing at the ledger, voice sharp, testing.

“He’s digging,” I say, picking up a blueprint, a knife design we’ll need soon. “Found two crews already sniffing around—small players, but hungry. They’ll move soon.”

Her brow furrows, leaning in. “Which crews?”

“Rossi’s leftovers and some guy named Calvetti,” I say, pointing to a map corner where I’ve marked their turf. “They think we’re weak after Marco.”

She snorts, crossing her arms. “They’re wrong.”

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