Page 120 of Veil of Secrets

“Damn,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, a lazy smile curving her lips. “That was… worth the grease.”

“You’re telling me,” I say, chuckling, brushing wet hair from her face. “You okay?”

“More than okay,” she says, her hands sliding down my back, warm and possessive. “I needed that. Needed you.”

“Always got you,” I murmur, kissing her again, slow and deep, feeling the truth of it in my bones. “This—us—it’s what makes this place alive.”

She pulls back, meeting my eyes, her gaze soft but fierce. “Same here, Nico. Engine or no engine, we’re good.”

“Damn right,” I say, helping her steady as we step out, water pooling on the tiles. We grab towels, drying off slowly, hands lingering, stealing touches, the bathroom warm and humid around us. The garage waits beyond the door, the engine half-built, tools scattered, but right now, it’s just us, bound by water, heat, and something stronger than steel.

“Let’s grab some food,” I say, pulling on my jeans, my stomach growling now that the hunger’s shifted.

“Yeah,” she says, slipping into her tank top, her chain glinting as she moves. “Then we finish that damn engine.”

We raid the break room’s fridge, finding cold pizza and a couple of sodas, sitting on the workbench, our shoulders brushing. She teases me about my terrible aim with a socket wrench earlier, and I fire back about her dropping a bolt in the oil pan last week. The laughter’s easy, the food simple, but it’s enough, fueling us for the work ahead. The engine still needs its valves adjusted, the bike frame needs aligning, but we’re not rushed. This garage is ours, marked by our sweat, our laughter, our touch.

“Back to it,” I say, tossing my soda can, nodding at the tools.

“Yeah,” she says, hopping off the bench, her chain catching the light. “But don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

I laugh, pulling her close for one more kiss. “Good. I’m counting on it.”

We grab our wrenches, falling into step, tightening bolts, checking fittings, the engine taking shape under our hands. The garage hums around us, oil and metal in the air, but here, it’s us—grease, water, and choice, building something that’s ours. And it’s only the beginning.

Chapter 27 – Elara

The spotlight hits me with a blinding heat, bright enough to erase the shadows at my feet. My pulse quickens—not from nerves, not anymore—but from something sharper, stronger. Anticipation. The noise of the crowd washes over me, warm and thick like honey, filled with expectation and hunger. They're waiting to see the girl who used to be chained, dancing behind steel bars. But tonight, there’s no cage. No chains. Only the stage beneath my feet, solid and free.

I don’t move right away. I stand at the very center, feeling the strength of it under my heels. My fingers grip the microphone, metal cold and reassuring against my palm. Nico stands behind me, a silent, steady presence. He’s not my shield or my protector. He’s a partner, a witness, someone who understands without speaking.

The chain around my neck swings slightly, catching the lights as I scan the crowd. Their faces blur together—familiar and unknown, judging and curious. I can feel their questions: Who does she think she is? What right does she have?

I lean into the mic, my voice clear and strong. "I know what you're thinking," I say slowly, each word slicing through the noise until the crowd stills, waiting. "You're wondering why I’m here, standing on this stage instead of dancing behind bars."

A murmur passes through the room, curious and cautious. I continue, my voice rising above it. "But what you saw before wasn’t me. It was a mask—a role forced on me. I danced because I had to, because someone else thought they owned me."

My heart beats harder, fueled by memory, by scars. "But tonight, there’s no mask. No chains. No cage. Tonight, I stand here because I chose this place. I fought for it. Bled for it. And I'll never dance for anyone else's approval again."

The club explodes in cheers, raw and wild. Their shouts vibrate through the soles of my boots, an echo of my own heartbeat. Behind me, I sense Nico’s steady presence grow warmer, closer. But still, he doesn’t step forward. He knows this moment belongs to me.

I raise my chin, my voice sharpening. "You all know Nico Drago. You respect his name. You fear it. Good. But tonight, understand something: Drago isn’t just his anymore. It's mine. I earned every goddamn letter."

The cheering deepens, becoming thunderous applause, the sound building around me like a wall of strength. This isn’t just acceptance—it’s respect. Respect I fought tooth and nail to earn.

I turn slightly, catching Nico’s eyes. He nods once, small and meaningful. It says everything: that he’s proud, that he believes in me, that he knows exactly what I gave up to stand here.

I breathe deep, facing the audience again. My voice softens, but only slightly. "The cage never defined me. The scars never broke me. Every bruise made me stronger, every fight made me harder. And now? I don’t need anyone's permission to stand here, because I earned my place."

I drop the mic slightly, chest rising and falling with adrenaline and triumph. Nico’s presence anchors me, grounding my racing heart. I earned this moment—this clarity—through violence, through tears, through sacrifice. But most importantly, I earned it for myself.

The club pulses with raw energy, the stage vibrating under my boots as the crowd’s cheers echo off the walls, their voices a defiant roar.

Nico stands at my side, his presence solid, his knife sheathed but ready, his eyes scanning the room with the same vigilance I feel. This club—once a cage, twisted by Tommy, coveted by Marco—is ours now, reclaimed through blood and grit. Tonight, we’re not just holding ground; we’re declaring it, loud and unyielding.

The triumph surges through me, but a flicker of movement at the stage’s edge cuts it short. Shadows shift violently in the darkness, and my instincts scream. Before I can fully turn, heavy boots thud onto the stage, the wood creaking under the weight of five figures emerging from the gloom. At their center is Calvetti—tall, lean, his face sharp and cruel, eyes glinting with malice.

His tailored coat bears his sigil, a serpent coiled around a blade, and his presence chills the air. Four of his men flank him—two burly enforcers with brass knuckles, a wiry thug with a switchblade, and a scarred woman clutching a chain whip. The crowd’s cheers falter, a tense hush falling over the room.

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