Page 114 of Veil of Dust

She nods, her face sharp, her eyes searching mine. “Then don’t mess it up,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips, a flicker of warmth in the tension. “I’m not running that bar alone forever.”

I manage a small laugh, the sound rough but real. “Deal,” I say, my hand brushing hers, a brief, grounding touch. “I’ll be back before you start redecorating the place.”

Her smile fades, but her eyes stay locked on mine, fierce and unwavering. “You’re not just doing this for me,” she says. “You’re doing it for you, too. For a chance to live without looking over your shoulder.”

I swallow hard, her words hitting deeper than I expect. “Maybe,” I admit, my voice low. “But you’re the reason I’m fighting for that chance.”

She steps back, giving me space to finish, but her presence still anchors me. I check the scene one last time, making sure every detail is perfect. The bloodstains are chaotic, the footprints tell a story of struggle, and the body wears my identity like amask. It’s enough to buy us time, to let me slip away and start over.

“You’re my hope,” I say, my voice softer, my hands still, holding the shirt like it’s a piece of her. “You’re why I’m not afraid.”

“And you’re mine,” she replies, her gray eyes fierce, unbroken, a light I’ll carry with me no matter where I go.

Shouts erupt at the alley’s mouth, harsh and jagged, slicing through the dawn’s thick fog. Boots pound wet pavement, heavy, urgent, the sound bouncing off grimy brick walls. Metal clinks—a belt buckle, maybe a holster. Radios hiss and crackle, static spitting into the gray morning air.

“That’s him!” a man barks, his voice raw, certain, pinning me to the shadows as I crouch low behind a stack of crates.

“He’s down—gone. Christ,” another mutters, quieter, stunned, buying the lie I’ve staged by the dumpster, the body sprawled in a pool of dark blood, clothes torn to match mine.

“They think it’s me,” I whisper to myself, my pulse steady, my body still, every sense locked on their voices. “They see Tiziano Valtieri, dead, and that’s enough.”

“Keep it together,” Vespera’s voice from last night echoes in my head, her words sharp, steadying me. “One slip, and it’s over.”

I duck under the rusted fire escape, flattening myself against the wall, breath trapped in my chest. The fog curls around me, cold and heavy, hiding my shape in its damp haze. The brick under my palms is rough, icy, grounding me as I strain to hear.

“There’s four of them,” I murmur, counting voices, their words tangled, chaotic. “Maybe five.”

One lingers too close to the dumpster, his boots scuffing the pavement near my handiwork. “He’s messed up bad,” he says, voice low, uneasy. “One of ours do this?”

“Looks like a hit. Throat’s cut clean,” another replies, colder, assessing, believing the story I’ve carved into flesh.

“It’s clean enough,” I say under my breath, lips tight, eyes fixedon the fog’s edge where their shadows shift. “Real enough to fool them.”

“Real enough to get us out,” Vespera’s voice from last night cuts through my memory, sharp, certain.

“Shit. Who do we tell?” the first man asks, panic creeping into his tone, a crack I’m banking on.

“Bianca first,” the cold one says, final, the name twisting my gut like a knife. “She’ll want to see this herself.”

“They’re not close yet,” I whisper, my body coiled, muscles taut, ready to move. “Their confusion’s my window.”

A new voice cuts in, clipped, commanding. “Secure the scene. Nobody touches the body. Bianca’s ten minutes out.”

“That’s my cue,” I mutter, sliding deeper into the shadows, the black hoodie Vespera gave me pulled low over my brow, its weight like armor. My boots are silent on the slick pavement, every step careful, deliberate. One wrong sound, and the lie unravels.

I slip through the fence gap behind the dumpster, boots grazing concrete just enough to leave a faint mark, subtle, overlooked. My left hand brushes damp brick, steadying me; my right grips the alley key, its metal cold, a lifeline to the next moment.

“Around the block,” I tell myself, moving quickly, silently, through the side street where the fog pools thicker, swallowing me. I pass boarded windows, their wood splintered, blind, and the alley’s second entrance, its mouth empty, gaping.

Shouts flare again, closer now, voices sharp, confused. “He’s moving! I saw—” one yells, desperate, chasing nothing.

“No, man, that’s just the wind,” another snaps, firm. “The body’s cold.”

“Cold and gone,” I murmur, a grim smile tugging my lips, my breath shallow, controlled. “You’re chasing a ghost.”

I duck low, heart pounding in my throat, fog erasing my outline as I move. The voices fade, lost in the city’s haze. At the bar’s back door, Vespera waits, her silhouette sharp against the dim glow, her gray eyes cutting through the blood and lies, seeing only me.

“You’re here,” I say, my chest loosening, her presence pulling me back from the edge.

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