Page 3 of Veil of Secrets

Own the ground the way I own the cage.

But his stare clings to my back like wet fabric, dragging against every step. I push through the narrow hallway leading toward the back lounge, past a couple of newbies giggling near the dressing curtain. One of them is missing a heel and trying to hop on one foot. I don’t stop to help.

“Ricci,” a voice calls. Not loud.

I glance over. It’s Carter, the bartender. Bald, tatted, mean to everyone but the girls.

He’s talking to that guy.

“That’s Elara Ricci,” Carter says, polishing a glass. “Survived Tommy Lucetti. Been dancing here ever since.”

I don’t stop moving, but I hear that guy’s answer clear as day.

“She’s tougher than she looks.”

No reaction from Carter. He knows it’s true.

I reach the curtain and yank it aside. Halfway through, I pause. Something prickles down my spine. Not fear. Not nerves. Just that sense again—that stillness doesn’t belong in this place.

I turn around.

He hasn’t moved. Still staring.

I march back two steps, just far enough to let him hear me.

“You planning to buy a drink,” I say, “or just keep staring like a creep?”

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t smirk.

Just nods once.

Like he’s decided something.

Whatever it is, it’s not my problem.

But something about him feels like the beginning of a problem.

And I’ve had enough of those.

Chapter 1 – Elara

I push through the back door with my hip. It slams shut behind me like it’s mad too. Rain taps lightly on the rusted awning above the exit, and the breeze hits like a wet slap to the chest. It’s not cold. Just damp. The kind of damp that sticks to everything and never really dries.

I light up before my boots finish hitting the concrete.

This alley’s a dump. Smells like piss, seawater, and someone’s long-forgotten regret behind the dumpster. Perfect place to clear my head. The neon sign above the club pulses red, leaking through the cracks in the bricks like the building’s bleeding.

I take a long drag.

There’s a trick to this—smoking with purpose. Not in that fake, performative way like the girls who try to look like tragic dolls out front. Out here, I’m not part of the scenery. I’m just trying to get my heart rate down and feel like I’m in my body again.

The chain around my neck swings when I lean back against the wall. I adjust it out of habit. The padlock clinks dully against my collarbone. Still broken. Still mine.

My ribs ache. Same place they always do. It’s a phantom pain, mostly. Tommy’s greatest hit, lingering like the bastard’s cologne. I press two fingers into the muscle just beneath my bra line and breathe through it.

That set had me wired harder than usual. Maybe it was the look that guy gave me. Maybe it was just the cage itself. I don’t know. But I felt eyes on me long after I climbed down.

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