Page 93 of Veil of Secrets

And suddenly, that's enough.

Chapter 16 – Nico

The alley’s blood is still on my boots. Two bodies down before sunrise, and now we’re here, in the casino’s gut, where deals go to die. Marco’s been circling closer, his moves bolder since the docks. Tonight’s not a coincidence. He knows we’re coming for him. I can feel it in the way the city’s holding its breath.

I stand across from one of his thugs, a broad guy with a scarred lip and eyes too small for his face. He’s got two shadows behind him—muscle, not brains—leaning against the steel table like they’re here for a poker game. They’re not. The room’s too quiet for that, the kind of quiet that comes before a blade finds a throat.

Elara’s nearby, to my left. She doesn’t stand like she’s waiting for permission. Her boots are planted, chain swinging at her hip, eyes sharp enough to cut through the neon haze. She’s not posturing. She’s ready. That’s enough to make the thug shift his weight, his smirk faltering for half a second.

He clears his throat, trying to fill the space. “This is from Marco. His last warning.”

I don’t blink. My hand’s already near the blade in my jacket. “Then he should’ve picked a better messenger.”

The thug’s lips twist, like he’s got something clever to say. He doesn’t get the chance. I move, fast and clean, closing the gap in one step. My blade’s out, steel catching the red light as it arcs across his throat. The cut’s deep, precise. Blood sprays, hot and wet, hitting the table and the floor. His hands claw at his neck, useless, as his knees buckle. He collapses, guts spilling where my second slash catches him low. The message he carried dies with him, pooling in red on the concrete.

The two shadows jerk back, hands fumbling for weapons. Too slow. I’m already on the first, driving my blade into his side, twisting until he gasps and drops. The second swings a fist, wild, missing me by inches. Elara moves then, her knife flashing as she buries it in his chest. He staggers, eyes wide, then falls, his weight cracking a chair.

The room’s still again. Just the rain outside and the faint clatter of chips upstairs. I wipe my blade on the thug’s jacket, blood smearing dark. Elara doesn’t blink. Just nods, her knife still in hand, steady as ever.

“Clean work,” she says, voice low, like she’s stating a fact.

I sheath the blade, eyes on the door. “Messy enough to send the message back.”

She steps over the first body, chain brushing her hip. “He’s next.”

I meet her gaze. “Yeah. And he knows it now.”

She doesn’t need orders. Doesn’t need protecting. She moves with me, not behind.

I glance at the bodies, then back at her. “You saw his face. He thought he had us.”

She snorts, wiping her knife on her sleeve. “He thought wrong.”

I nod, checking the door again. Marco’s close—too close. This wasn’t just a warning. It was a test. And we passed it in blood.

“Why send three?” Elara asks, crouching to check the thug’s pockets. “He’s desperate.”

“Or cocky.” I lean against the table, watching her work. “Marco’s not stupid. He’s baiting us.”

She pulls a folded paper from the thug’s jacket, unfolds it fast. Her eyes scan, then narrow. “Meeting. Tonight. Pier seven.”

I step closer, looking over her shoulder. The paper’s scribbled with times, names—Marco’s, a few others. “They’re moving fast.”

“Too fast.” She stands, crumpling the paper. “They know we’re onto them.”

I take the paper from her, scanning it again. “This is their last play. They’re cornered.”

“Good.” Her voice is sharp, like she’s already seeing the fight. “Cornered means sloppy.”

I fold the paper, tuck it into my jacket. “Or dangerous.”

She tilts her head, chain catching the light. “You scared?”

I meet her eyes, steady. “You’re here. I’m not scared of anything.”

Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Smooth talker.”

“Truth talker.”

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