Page 41 of Veil of Secrets

The bar smells like money, sweat, and insecurity.

Not the kind you feel, the kind men drown in—buying drinks they can’t afford in suits they didn’t earn, pretending they don’t see the stains in the carpet or the cracks in the marble columns.

It’s a place built for distraction.

But I’m not here for the show.

I sit at the edge of a velvet stool, back straight, one hand wrapped around a glass I haven’t touched. The bartender poured top shelf without asking. Doesn’t know I only drink when I’m off the clock. And lately, I don’t feel off anything.

Nico stands behind me, not looming—but close enough that I feel it.

He doesn’t say much tonight. That’s fine. He doesn’t need to. His presence is enough.

Security eyes us from the corners. Not subtle. Not smart either. But that’s how Marco likes it. He wants us to know this is his space. His house. His rules.

The lighting in here is low. Not soft—low. Everything’s gold and wood and shadows. Velvet curtains cover the back wall, everyone pretending they don’t know what’s behind them.

But they do.

Behind those curtains is where Marco plays king.

Where people walk in with pride and leave with debt.

And tonight?

I’m walking in with blood on my hands and zero patience left for games.

My dress is black, skin-tight, no frills. The chain stays around my neck. No one asked me to dress up. But I know what power looks like. And I’m wearing it.

My scar burns slightly beneath the fabric.

Maybe it’s the lights.

Or maybe it’s the way every eye in the room shifts when the curtain parts.

Marco Salvatore walks out like he’s gliding.

Suit tailored within an inch of its life. Hair slicked back. Smile polished.

His hands are empty. That’s what bothers me most.

He’s the kind of man who always enters a room already reaching for something—your arm, your drink, your weakness. The fact that his hands are free right now makes me check the exits.

“Elara,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “Finally, in my bar.”

I don’t stand. I don’t smile.

He steps closer.

“Come back with me,” he says, nodding toward the curtain. “Let’s talk.”

“I don’t sit behind curtains,” I reply.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not amused.

“Pity,” he says. “I had a seat just for you.”

Nico’s voice cuts in from behind me, low and direct. “He’s not here to offer anything but problems.”

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