Page 122 of Veil of Secrets

His lips curve, a rare, genuine smile. “Always ours.”

The music swells again, a new track kicking in, bass thumping through the stage. I look at the blood-streaked floor, the scattered weapons, the empty space where Calvetti stood. He’s gone, but his promise hangs heavy, a storm on the horizon. I feel no fear—only resolve, sharpened by the crowd’s energy, Nico’s presence, the chain against my skin.

“Why’d he come himself?” I ask, crouching to pick up the switchblade, its handle warm from the thug’s grip. “He’s been hiding, sending pawns.”

Nico kneels beside me, checking the enforcer’s pockets, finding a folded note with Calvetti’s sigil. “He’s desperate,” he says, handing it to me. “This says he’s losing men, allies. He needed to make a show, prove he’s still in control.”

I scan the note, my lips pressing tight. “He proved the opposite. He ran.”

“It is time we end him,” Nico says, standing, his voice sharp. “Tonight, we don’t wait.”

“Agreed,” I say, tucking the note away, my mind already racing.

“We hit Calvetti before he slips away. We move fast, strike hard.”

“I want to be the one he sees first,” I say, my voice fierce, picturing Calvetti’s shock when we crash his hideout.

“You will,” Nico says, a grin breaking through. “Nobody leaves a mark like you.”

I laugh, rough and real, nudging his shoulder.

“Keep up, then.”

“Always,” he says, his hand brushing mine, warm and steady.

Chapter 28 – Nico

The south docks reek of salt and oil, fog curling thick off the black water. Elara’s beside me, her knife strapped tight. The safehouse squats ahead—a rusted warehouse, lights bleeding through cracked windows, Calvetti’s final hole. Three hours ago, we decided: strike tonight, end him now. Luca and Sal flank us, shadows in the mist, Frankie trailing, his hands steady despite his quick breaths. The city’s hushed, waves slapping pilings, but my blood’s loud. This is it.

The warehouse door’s half-open, yellow light spilling out, daring us to cross. A guard leans outside, cigarette flaring, oblivious to his fate. Elara’s eyes catch mine, her nod sharp, and I signal Luca. He moves like smoke, knife glinting once, the guard folding silently, blood pooling dark on the pavement. We slip inside, boots soft on the gritty floor, the air thick with rust and sweat. Calvetti’s here—I know it.

A stack of crates rises to our left, stamped with faded marks, shielding us from the open floor. Voices drift—three guys, chuckling, dice rattling on a table. Elara’s hand grazes mine, her fingers cool, steadying me. I point right, where a metal staircase twists to a catwalk, Calvetti’s office glowing at the end. She nods, eyes fierce, her knife already out.

“That all of them?” she whispers, voice low, scanning the floor for more.

I peer past the crates, spotting the dice game, guns glinting beside the players. “For now.”

We move here. But we also end here. And that makes all the difference.

I motion to Sal, fingers flicking toward the players. “Handle them.”

Sal nods, his pipe wrench catching the light, and Luca follows, both vanishing into the shadows. Elara and I creep toward the staircase, our steps silent, the metal cold under my grip. The warehouse is a labyrinth—crates, barrels, chains swaying from pulleys, lit by flickering bulbs. A radio hisses somewhere, static slicing the quiet, and I pause, Elara’s breath even beside me. No one stirs.

The catwalk’s tight, groaning under our weight, but we don’t stop. Calvetti’s office door is steel, voices leaking through, his voice sharp, barking commands. Elara’s eyes meet mine, bright and ready as she grips her knife. I nod, hand on my gun, the weight solid, sure. We’re not just here to fight. We’re here to finish.

“Ready?” I ask, voice a breath, my free hand brushing her arm.

She smirks, eyes sparking. “Let’s do this.”

The warehouse erupts, a yell below shattering the quiet. Sal’s wrench cracks skull, a scream following, wet and sharp. The dice players are down, but boots pound—more coming, alerted. I kick the office door, steel slamming inward, and we’re inside, guns up, the room cramped and chaotic, papers strewn, a bulb swinging. Calvetti’s there, behind a desk, two goons at his sides, their guns already lifting.

“Traitor!” Calvetti snarls, his face contorted, eyes pinned on me, hand diving for a drawer.

I don’t wait. I fire, the shot deafening, catching the first goon in the throat, blood spraying as he collapses, gun skittering. Elara’s on the second, her knife slashing quick, his chest opening red, his body crumpling with a dull thud. Calvetti’s fast, drawer open, pistol in hand, but I’m faster, lunging over the desk, papers flying.

The desk buckles under us, wood splintering, and we crash to the floor, his pistol spinning away. He’s lean, scrappy, clawing at my eyes, nails drawing blood, but I’m stronger, pinning him, my fist smashing his nose, cartilage crunching. Elara’s beside me, her boot cracking his knee, a snap echoing, his scream raw and high. The warehouse pulses with noise below—gunshots, metal clanging, Sal and Luca holding ground.

“Still fighting?” Elara asks, voice cool, her knife at Calvetti’s throat, chain catching the light as she leans close.

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