Page 8 of Veil of Secrets

He watches me.

I don’t give him more.

“You want something from me,” I say, stepping around the mess on the ground. “So does everyone. Get in line.”

He doesn’t follow. He stays with the body, half in shadow, like he belongs there more than he belongs with the living.

I pass the dumpster, the door, the flickering neon.

His voice carries after me, low and steady.

“Just think about it.”

I keep walking, chain swinging.

My head’s buzzing now, not from adrenaline this time—but from the look in his eyes when the knife went in.

That wasn’t anger. That wasn’t defense.

That was purpose.

If he thinks a corpse and a calm voice are enough to win me over, he hasn’t been paying attention.

Chapter 2 – Nico

Floorboards creak under every step, like the house is warning me to sit down. I don’t. I keep pacing.

The safehouse used to belong to my uncle. Back when the Brotherhood actually meant something. Back when people answered calls without hesitation and respect didn’t come with a price tag. Now it’s just me, old floorboards, and the ghost of better days.

There’s a long scratch on the wall across from me. I don’t know who left it. Could’ve been a knife, a bullet, a drunk with a belt buckle. Doesn’t matter. This place holds damage. That’s why I like it.

The exposed bulb above the table hums like it’s breathing shallow. Light flickers once, but holds.

Maps spread across the table. Red ink for threats, blue for bribes, green for routes we can’t trust anymore. I stare at the Atlantic corridor, tracing the coastline with my finger until it lands on The Cage’s rough mark.

Elara Ricci.

The name sticks.

She wasn’t supposed to be a variable. I went to watch, maybe speak, maybe get a read. What I got was a woman who doesn’t blink when blood hits pavement. Who doesn’t flinch when men with knives ask questions.

Most people break quiet.

She cracks loud.

I remember that.

I slide a cigarette between my lips but don’t light it yet. My hands twitch—rare for me. I clench one into a fist and breathe through it.

Her face flashes in my head. Not in some soft-focus bullshit kind of way. Just the image—eyes locked on mine, chin lifted, like she’s ready to spit in my drink and walk away clean.

I drag my shirt up and trace the scar on my left side. Faded, jagged. Chicago job. Years ago. A door went wrong, a shipment vanished, and three guys who swore loyalty died with lies in their throats. That was before everything started rusting. Before we had to buy silence from men we used to command.

Now I don’t trust half my own crew.

I fish the silver ring from my pocket and turn it in my hand. Heavy. My father’s. Worn smooth around the edges. He gave it to me the night before he was shot six times in our garage. No speech. Just pressed it into my palm like it was a bill to be paid.

Not a keepsake. A burden.

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