Page 123 of Veil of Secrets

I glance at the door, hearing steps on the catwalk, more closing in. “Not for long.”

I yank Calvetti up, his face bloody, eyes wild but fading. “It’s over,” I say, slamming him against the wall, his head cracking plaster. “Drago’s free.”

He coughs, blood flecking his lips, a weak grin. “You’ll pay, Nico.”

Elara’s knife presses closer, a thin red line blooming under the blade. “No. You will.”

The catwalk rattles, two goons bursting in, guns blazing, shouting Calvetti’s name. I dive, pulling Elara down, bullets ripping through the desk, glass shattering behind us. We roll, and I fire from the floor, one shot, two, both goons dropping, blood pooling fast. Elara’s up, knife in hand, checking the door, her breath quick but controlled.

“Clear,” she says, crouching beside me, her hand on my arm, checking for hits.

I nod, wiping blood from my face, not mine. “Calvetti.”

He’s crawling, fingers clawing for his pistol, a desperate glint in his eyes. Elara’s quicker, her boot pinning his back, knife flashing as she grabs his hair, pulling his head back. “You’re done,” she says, voice hard, holding up the note from the bar, his mark scrawled on it. “No more.”

“Fuck you,” he gasps, blood dripping, his voice thin but venomous.

I stand, stepping over the bodies, my gun steady on him. “You lost when you came for us.”

Her eyes meet mine, a question in them, her knife poised. I nod, once, and she moves, swift and certain, her blade cutting deep, Calvetti’s choke silenced, his body slumping, eyes empty. Blood spreads, dark and final, seeping into the cracked floor. The warehouse stills, the gunfire below fading, Sal’s voice calling up, rough but steady.

“He’s gone,” Elara says, wiping her knife on her jeans.

I look at the body, then back at her. “We’re free.”

I reach for her arm, fingers brushing her jacket, grounding us. “Elara.”

She nods, eyes bright, knife tucked away. “Nico.”

The office is quiet, bulb flickering, papers scattered like ashes. I look around—what’s left, what we’ve won. Desk broken from our fight, walls scarred with bullet holes, floor marked by us now, blood drying into the grain. This isn’t just a safehouse. It’s the grave of Calvetti’s grip, carved out by us, blow by blow.

“Luca and Sal?” Elara asks, stepping over the bodies, her boots scuffing the floor.

I lean out the door, spotting them below, stacking bodies in a corner, Frankie cleaning his knife. “They’re good,” I say, turning back to her. “They held it.”

She nods. “No one’s coming for us now.”

“Yeah,” I grin, quick and real. “We did it.”

She leans against the desk, her knife sheathed, eyes scanning the room. “What’s next? Cops’ll poke around soon.”

I wipe my hands on my jeans, blood smearing faint. “We fade out. Let the docks hide this. Grab a drink after, celebrate.”

Her eyes spark, warm and ready. “A drink sounds perfect.”

The warehouse hums, waves crashing outside, fog thick against the walls. I look around again—blood on the floor, crates battered, bulb flickering like it’s fading. This place is ours, not because we fought for it, but because we broke Calvetti’s hold, chose our freedom, marked it with his end.

Elara steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “Feels good, doesn’t it? No more looking over our shoulders.”

“Better than good,” I say, meeting her eyes. “We’re out from under him. Just us now.”

Her lips curve, wide and real. “Damn right. Drago’s ours, and so’s tonight.”

“Yeah,” I say, squeezing her hand, the relief sinking in. “Let’s make it count.”

Her grin widens, bright as the neon back at the bar. “First round’s on you.”

The radio crackles below, Luca’s voice breaking through, calm but urgent. I feel the docks beyond the walls—the city’s hum, the open road ahead. But here, with Elara, it’s not just a win. It’s a beginning, etched into the dust of this place.

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