Page 13 of Veil of Dust
For extra safety, I haul that crate down the narrow stairwell into the basement’s back corner. No one ever thinks to look there.
That’s where it belongs—not out on the desk, not near the cards, and not near me.
The room’s quieter now. Not safe. Just more focused.
There are two men trying to move in on my life.
One’s polished, the other violent. One plays chess, the other plays with blades.
But this place?
This is mine.
They don’t get to mark it and pretend it’s theirs.
I carry the machete to the counter and set it down next to the tarot card, the Emperor, still upside down.
I take the scarf, smooth the edge over the deck, and wrap it tightly.
Not superstition.
Discipline.
Because if I don’t do things with purpose, someone else will decide what happens for me.
Thunder rumbles outside, closer. The storm’s crawling in from the edge of the city. The glass on the windows fogs up, drops running down like sweat. The walls feel damp.
It’s almost here.
They’re almost here.
But I’m not caught off guard anymore.
I run my hand along the blade one last time. The steel vibrates under my touch, like it remembers how to hurt.
It might get the chance.
Chapter 3 – Tiziano
I sit in the middle of the room, surrounded by cash.
The folding chair under me doesn’t make a sound. It’s as if it knows better than to call attention. The table in front of me is metal, worn, scratched, and marked by things that didn’t end cleanly.
Stacks of money rise on every side, wrapped in rubber bands and marked with a black pen. There’s so much of it that the humidity clings to the paper. The whole place smells like sweat and ink and too many deals. Even the concrete under my boots feels off—too soft, like this much cash could change the shape of the floor.
The ledger’s open. I just logged a new entry. The ink’s still drying, curling slightly where it hits the paper. I’ve created a new code line for Vespera’s bar. It doesn’t look like anything, just a small shift in the spacing, a minor twist in the figures. No one else would spot it.
My shoulder twitches. The tattoo on my back itches under my shirt—the raven. It’s always restless after I write something I can’t take back.
The name people use when they talk about me, when they don’t think I’m listening, is the Silent Broker.
Not a nickname I asked for, but it stuck. It moves through whispers, backrooms, back doors, tapped wires, and mouths full of cash. It means I do the work without drawing fire. And that I’m alone by design.
But even silence wears thin.
I’m tired of doing this from the sidelines.
I turn the page.
