Page 4 of Veil of Secrets

Footsteps crunch across gravel.

I go still. Not scared. Just… ready.

I angle my body toward the sound, free hand dropping to the switchblade tucked under my waistband. Some girls carry pepper spray. I’m not some girls.

The figure rounds the edge of the dumpster—no rush, no hesitation.

It’s him.

Same calm face. He walks like he doesn’t need to check behind him. Like if anything came at him, it wouldn’t matter.

He stops a few feet away. Doesn’t say anything.

I exhale, flick ash toward the puddle near my boot.

“You always walk up to strangers in dark alleys,” I say, “or am I just lucky tonight?”

“Neither,” he says. “I already know who you are.”

He says it like a statement, not a pickup line. My spine straightens, instincts flaring.

“Elara Ricci,” he adds.

Hearing my name from his mouth makes me grind my teeth. I’ve made a point of being just a body in a cage. Not a person. Not a name.

“Congrats,” I say, voice flat. “You know how to ask bartenders questions.”

“I’m not here to flirt.”

“Good,” I say. “Because you’re bad at it.”

The alley goes quiet again, except for the buzz of that flickering boardwalk sign and the rain hitting a loose tin sheet behind the dumpster. He steps closer—not enough to crowd me, just enough that I can see his eyes clearly now. They're dark, sharp, steady. Not the kind that flinch easy.

“I need something real,” he says.

I laugh once, hard. Not because it’s funny, but because that line? That line belongs in a therapist’s office. Not here. Not to me.

“Well,” I say, flicking ash again, “I’m out of favors. Try the next girl with glitter on her thighs.”

“She won’t survive,” he says.

I narrow my eyes.

“This city’s rotting,” he continues. “The Brotherhood’s bleeding out. I think you know how to survive rot.”

“Wow,” I mutter. “Is that supposed to be flattery? Because I’ve heard better insults.”

His face doesn’t twitch.

“I'm not looking to insult you,” he says. “I’m offering you something.”

“I’ve had men offer me a lot,” I say. “Drinks. Deals. Leashes.”

“This isn’t that.”

“No?” I drop the cigarette, crush it with my heel. “Then what is it?”

“I want to rebuild,” he says. “The Drago name used to mean something in this city. It doesn’t anymore. My brothers are either dead or working with people who should be.”

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