Page 86 of Veil of Secrets

He smirks, defiance still sparking through the haze of pain. “Go ahead, Nico. Cut me down. But you think this stops with me? Marco’s already coming. You’re drowning, brother, and you’re too blind to see it.”

I step even closer, voice low, holding the blade steady. “Maybe. But you won’t be around to watch it.”

I don’t hesitate.

The blade slices quick and deep, a single sharp movement across his throat. Blood gushes instantly, warm and slick, running over my knuckles as he gasps, chokes, tries to speak. Nothing comes but a wet gurgle.

Elara doesn’t look away. She watches like it matters—like witnessing it herself makes it real.

Vince jerks, fighting the chains. But they hold. His movements slow quickly, blood pooling down his chest and dripping steadily onto the floor, mixing with the rainwater leaking from above.

I step back.

Elara moves forward.

Her foot snaps out, driving her sharp heel into Vince’s ribs. The body doesn’t respond—already slack, already beyond pain—but she doesn’t stop there. Her voice comes rough, filled with disgust.

“You don’t get to say shit anymore.”

She spits at his feet, straightening, chest rising and falling quickly. She glances back at me, eyes dark and fierce. “That felt good.”

I nod slightly, cleaning the blade calmly, deliberately, on a scrap of cloth from the table. My hands move steady, precise, controlled. The basement feels colder now, emptier.

This wasn’t revenge.

It was removal.

Rot doesn’t negotiate. It gets cut out.

I toss the cloth aside, watching Vince’s body slump forward, blood running slower now. The silence stretches, broken only by the soft drip of water and blood.

“It’s done,” I say quietly.

Elara exhales slowly, stepping close to me. Her voice is quiet but firm.

“Almost.”

She turns, her eyes locked with mine. She doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to. We both know Vince was just the beginning.

The rain is louder now, tapping steadily at the ceiling like a warning. A distant thunder growls above the city, a storm brewing deeper than anything we left behind.

She looks down at Vince’s body again, eyes thoughtful. The room feels smaller, walls pressing in, the air heavy with the smell of death and decision.

Her hand finds mine suddenly. Her grip is tight, strong, grounding. She smiles slightly, tension easing from her stance. She nods, accepting my words for what they are.

We stand quietly, side by side, two survivors in a world that’s been trying to bury us both for years.

“Let’s go,” I finally say, breaking the quiet between us. “This isn’t over yet.”

“No,” she agrees softly. “But we’re the ones holding the knife now.”

We step together toward the stairs, leaving Vince’s body behind. The basement’s shadows close around him, swallowing his secrets, swallowing his mistakes.

We’re almost at the staircase when the silence shatters.

The basement door crashes inward with a splintering crack. Hinges groan, metal screams against the concrete. A figure fills the frame at the top of the stairs—a bulky shadow with a gun raised, wild eyes wide and desperate.

He screams into the dark, voice hoarse and shaking.

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