Page 88 of Veil of Secrets

My eyes drift back to the bodies on the ground. Blood has already thickened on the concrete, darkening as it cools. Vince’s betrayal lies beside the thug’s blind loyalty—both equally worthless in the end.

Elara’s fingers brush mine gently, hesitant at first, then firmly. She doesn’t take my hand fully—not yet—but the gesture is clear. Trust. Solidarity. Understanding.

I reach out slowly, carefully, my hand closing over hers. Her fingers curl around mine, strong and warm, sticky with drying blood. There's nothing romantic about it. Nothing gentle. But it's real. Realer than anything either of us has felt in a long time.

I turn toward her fully, still holding her hand.

"Elara," I say simply, voice low and honest.

She lifts her gaze, steady and clear. A faint smile touches her lips.

"Nico."

We stand quietly, just breathing, hearts settling back into a steady rhythm. We’ve been through hell and haven’t broken yet.

My thoughts shift slowly—measuring what this means, what we are now. She’s not a bystander. She’s not a dancer in a cage. She’s not bait or a distraction. She’s part of this, part of me, in ways I didn't expect and can't fully explain.

I won't let go of that.

"They’re going to come for us harder now," I say quietly, breaking the silence again. "Marco can’t ignore this. Vince was his play, and now he has to strike back or lose everything."

"Good," she says calmly, stepping even closer. Her voice is fierce, certain. "Let him come. We'll handle it like we handled this."

Her confidence isn’t bravado. It’s fact. We’ve proven it already, more times than either of us can count. The quiet certainty in her voice does more than reassure—it solidifies us further.

"It won’t be clean," I warn her gently, searching her eyes carefully for any hesitation.

She meets my stare without blinking. "Nothing about this ever was. Clean isn’t what I signed up for."

I exhale slowly, nodding. "It’ll be brutal."

"I know," she says simply. "I’m still here."

"I don’t want you caught in something you didn’t—"

"I chose this," she interrupts firmly, cutting off any doubt I had left. "I'm standing right here, Nico. By choice."

Her words hang between us, stark and honest. The basement around us feels smaller, quieter. The two bodies at our feet already forgotten, meaningless in the scope of what we've just acknowledged.

"Alright," I say finally. "Together."

She smiles faintly, just a hint of satisfaction. "Together."

My grip tightens slightly, fingers pressing against hers in silent promise. Loyalty earned, trust proven—solid as the concrete around us.

"Let's go," I finally say. "This is done."

She glances down at the corpses once more, then nods sharply. "Yeah. Nothing else down here for us."

We move toward the stairs, still holding each other’s hands, not for comfort but for strength. Above, the city waits. Marco waits. War waits.

But we’re not hiding anymore.

We ascend the steps slowly, each one a step toward something we’ve both been chasing—certainty, power, freedom. We leave behind betrayal, blood, and bodies. But we take something deeper, stronger with us.

We step into the pre-dawn grayness together. Rain drizzles cold and steady, washing blood from our hands and faces, soaking our clothes, sharpening the chill.

Neither of us speaks as we move through the empty street, silent shadows bound by choice and violence. It’s not romance between us—nothing gentle or soft. It’s deeper, harder, tested by blades and bullets and blood.

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