Page 113 of Veil of Secrets

The leader collapses, gasping, blood pooling beneath him. The woman, still dazed, tries to crawl toward her fallen knife, but I kick it away, pinning her with a foot on her back until she stops struggling. The boardwalk falls silent, save for the ragged gasps of the defeated and the distant roar of the ocean.

I stumble back, chest heaving, blood dripping from my split knuckles. My knee screams, my jaw aches from clenching, but I’m alive. Nico wipes his blade on his torn sleeve, blood seeping from his arm and ribs, his face grim but steady. The boards are a mess—bodies sprawled, blood staining the wood, glinting in the fading light.

“You okay?” Nico asks, his voice rough but warm, eyes scanning me with concern.

I rub my knee, wincing. “Hurts like hell, but I’m standing. You look worse.”

He glances at his arm, the gash deep but not gushing. “I’ll manage. These were Marco’s people, weren’t they?”

I nod, spitting blood from a cut lip. “Yeah. Still fighting for a dead man’s cause. It’s pathetic.”

Nico’s jaw tightens, frustration flickering in his eyes. “They’re not thinking straight. Marco was their whole world, and now they’re just… lost.”

I look at the bodies, their faces slack, and feel a pang of pity mixed with exhaustion. “I’m so tired of this, Nico. Every time we think we’re free, someone else comes swinging.”

He steps closer, his hand resting on my shoulder, steadying me. “I know. But we can’t keep just fighting to stay alive. We need something real—something worth all this.”

I meet his gaze, seeing the same weariness I feel, but also a stubborn spark of hope. “Like what? A normal life? That feels like a fantasy.”

“Maybe it is,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “But we’ve earned the chance to find out. Together.”

The wind picks up, carrying the sharp scent of blood and salt. I take a deep breath, letting his words sink in. “Okay. But if we’re doing this, we do it our way. No more reacting—just choosing.”

“Deal,” he says, a small smile breaking through. “Now let’s get out of here before more show up.”

I glance at the ocean, its vastness a reminder of what’s still out there. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

He takes my hand, his grip warm and solid, and we turn from the wreckage, battered but unbroken. It’s not peace, not yet—but it’s a start.

Chapter 24 – Nico

The Drago bar pulses with a restless energy, its hardwood floor scarred from decades of spilled whiskey and blood. Elara stands at my side, her eyes sweeping the room, sharp and predatory, already calculating angles and exits.

This bar is ours—my father’s legacy, warped by Tommy’s betrayal, coveted by Marco’s greed, now reclaimed in defiance. Tonight, we’re not hiding in back rooms or plotting over maps. We’re standing in the open, staking our claim, loud and unyielding.

Ten of Marco’s holdouts face us, a ragged crew of loyalists too stubborn or desperate to flee after we tore down his empire. Their faces are a mix of defiance and fear, hands twitching near an arsenal of makeshift weapons—knives, a crowbar, a studded bat, a single revolver. The jukebox hums a gritty blues riff, its neon glow casting crimson shadows across their tense features. I step forward, hands loose, my knife sheathed but close, its weight a familiar comfort.

“This is Drago’s bar,” I say, my voice cutting through the heavy air, steady and cold. “Marco’s dead. His name means nothing here.”

A broad-shouldered man with a snake tattoo curling up his neck steps forward, gripping a bat studded with rusted nails. “You think you can erase him?” he snarls, his voice thick with contempt. “This place is Marco’s, and you’re just corpses waiting to drop.”

Elara shifts beside me, her stance coiled. “Wrong,” she says, her voice sharp as a blade. “This is ours, and you’re the ones who don’t belong.”

The tattooed man roars, swinging the bat toward my head. I drop low, the nails whistling past, and tackle him, my shoulder slamming into his gut. We crash into a table, splintering it, bottles and glasses shattering across the floor. His bat skitters away, and I draw my knife, slashing across his thigh. Blood spurts, hot and slick, and he howls, clawing at me. I pin his wrist, driving my knee into his chest, and he goes limp, gasping.

Elara is already in motion, facing a wiry woman with a switchblade and a lanky man wielding a crowbar. The woman lunges, her blade aimed at Elara’s ribs, but Elara sidesteps, grabbing a heavy whiskey bottle from the bar counter. She smashes it across the woman’s temple, glass exploding in a spray of amber liquid and blood. The woman crumples, her switchblade clattering to the floor. The crowbar man swings, catching Elara’s arm. She grits her teeth, ducking under his next swing, and drives her elbow into his throat. He chokes, staggering, and she kicks his knee, sending him to the floor.

The bar erupts into chaos. Three more thugs charge me—a stocky man with a chain, a younger guy with a hunting knife, and a grizzled veteran with brass knuckles. The chain whistles through the air, grazing my shoulder, tearing my jacket and drawing blood. I spin, kicking a barstool into the stocky man’s legs, toppling him.

The knife-wielder slashes at my chest, but I parry with my blade, metal scraping, and drive my fist into his jaw. He reels, and I slice his forearm, disarming him. The veteran lands a brutal punch to my ribs, pain flaring, but I grab his arm, twisting until his elbow pops, and shove him face-first into the bar counter. He slumps, blood streaming from his nose.

Elara faces the remaining four—a burly man with a revolver, a skinny kid with a broken chair leg, and two others with knives. The revolver man aims, but Elara hurls a barstool, knocking his arm. The shot goes wild, shattering a neon sign, sparks raining down. She closes the distance, tackling him to the ground, wrenching the gun from his hand, and smashing its handle into his temple. He goes still, blood pooling. The skinny kid swings the chair leg, catching her thigh, and she stumbles, cursing. She recovers, grabbing his wrist and flipping him onto a table, which collapses under his weight, wood splintering. One knife-wielder charges, but she dodges, kicking a chair into his shins, then slamming his head against the jukebox. The music skips, then resumes, a warped blues wail. The last attacker hesitates, knife trembling, and Elara stares him down, her presence a force. He drops his weapon, backing away.

The bar falls quiet, save for the jukebox’s distorted hum and the groans of the fallen. Blood stains the floor, mingling with whiskey, glass, and neon shards. My ribs ache, my shoulder bleeds, but I’m standing. Elara wipes blood from her knuckles, her arm bruised, thigh swelling, but her eyes burn with unrelenting fire. The tattooed man, clutching his bleeding thigh, and the kid, dazed but conscious, are the only ones still moving.

I step forward, my voice low and deliberate. “You’re alive for a reason. Go back to Calvetti. Tell him Drago’s ours—bar, name, everything. Come for us again, and there won’t be anyone left to carry a message.”

Elara leans against the bar, her gaze fierce. “Make it clear: we’re done playing defense. Calvetti’s next, and we’re coming for him.”

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