Page 114 of Veil of Secrets

The tattooed man nods, fear overtaking his bravado. He drags the kid up, and they stumble toward the door, leaving a trail of blood. The door slams shut, the wind howling outside, carrying their retreat into the night.

I turn to Elara, checking her over. Her arm is bruised, her thigh limping, but she’s steady. “You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice soft, just for her.

She winces, testing her leg. “Hurts like hell, but I’m fine. Your shoulder’s a mess.”

I glance at the gash, blood soaking my sleeve. “It’ll hold. We made our point.”

She scans the wreckage—broken tables, shattered glass, bodies sprawled. “Think they’ll spread the word?”

“They’ll talk,” I say, wiping my knife clean. “Calvetti sent these guys to test us, but he’s running out of pawns. We need to hit him before he regroups.”

Elara nods, her jaw tight. “I’m sick of cleaning up his messes. Let’s end this already.”

“Agreed,” I say, my mind already on Luca’s intel: Calvetti’s warehouse at the south docks, lightly guarded at night. “Our scouters have reported back, Luca and Sal are in. Frankie, if he’s clean. Small crew, fast and quiet.”

“Good,” she says, her voice steady, eyes burning. “I want Calvetti to see our faces when it’s over.”

I grin, despite the pain in my ribs. “He’ll see you, alright. Nobody brings it like you.”

She laughs, rough and real, nudging my arm. “Don’t lag behind, then.”

“Never,” I say, meeting her eyes, feeling the weight of our partnership, solid as the bar itself.

We start cleaning up, dragging bodies to the back, mopping blood and glass. The jukebox shifts to a slower, mournful tune, thunder rumbling closer, shaking the windows. I pause, looking around—the bar’s battered, but it’s ours. My father built this place, his name carved into its bones. Tommy broke it, Marco tried to steal it, but we’re rebuilding it, fight by fight.

“Why’d they come tonight?” Elara asks, tossing a bloodied rag aside. “They had to know they’d lose.”

I crouch by a man, noticing a folded note tucked in his belt. I pull it out—orders, scrawled with Calvetti’s sigil. “Calvetti’s desperate,” I say, handing it to her. “He’s burning through men, hoping to wear us down.”

She reads it, her lips pressing tight. “He’s underestimating us.”

“His mistake,” I say, standing. “We’re going to show him exactly who we are.”

Elara folds the note, tucking it into her pocket. “This bar, this fight—it’s more than just us now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I say, looking at her, the chain around her neck glinting red under the flickering neon. “It’s for everyone who’s ever been caught in their games. We’re breaking the cycle.”

Her lips curve, a faint, tired smile. “That’s a big promise.”

“Worth keeping,” I say, stepping closer, my hand brushing hers. “With you.”

She laces her fingers with mine, her grip firm, rough from fights but warm. “You’re stuck with me, you know.”

“Good,” I say, holding her gaze. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The back door creaks open, wood groaning against the frame. No one’s there, just the storm’s breath pushing through, rain spitting across the threshold. A gust swirls in, cool and sharp, tugging at Elara’s jacket. She laughs, soft and sudden, shaking her head as she crosses the room, her chain swaying with her steps. “Storm’s got no manners,” she says, shoving the door shut, the latch clicking firm.

I lean against the bar, watching her move, the way the neon catches her hair. Rain streaks the windows now, blurring the world outside, and the bar feels like ours alone, wrapped in the jukebox’s slow rhythm. Elara’s back at the table, rag tossed aside, her fingers tapping the scratched wood, matching the beat, her hips swaying just a fraction, like she’s testing the music.

“That all of it?” she asks, voice light, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

I glance at the door, then back at her. “Tonight.”

I reach for her arm, fingers brushing her jacket, grounding us. “Elara.”

She nods, eyes steady, chain glinting as she steps closer. “Nico.”

The bar’s still, jukebox humming soft, neon painting the walls red. I look around—what’s left, what we’re holding. Tables scratched from years of laughter, bar top burned from forgotten nights, floorboards marked by us now, blood drying into the grain. This isn’t just a bar. It’s the heart of what we’re keeping, moment by moment, choice by choice.

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