Page 66 of Veil of Dust

The bar pulses with a tense hush, my boots hammering the worn oak floor as I pace behind the counter, each step a jolt of fury rattling my bones. Alfeo’s shadow looms, his man sent to test me, to sit in my bar like he owns it, a challenge I feel in my gut like a blade.

“You think you can walk into my house, Alfeo?” I mutter, pulse steady but sharp, a drumbeat only I hear. “Sit in my bar like it’s yours?”

“No one owns you, Vespera,” Tiziano’s voice from earlier echoes, low and fierce, steadying me. “Not Alfeo, not anyone.”

Glass clinks at the bar, a patron’s nervous grip betraying him, his whiskey trembling in his hand. A sharp shatter cuts through the haze—a tumbler hits the tile and explodes, its echo ringing, shards scattering across the floor like jagged lies. Everyone freezes, heads snapping toward the sound, hands pausing, eyes wide with the instinct to bolt.

“Clumsy bastard,” I say under my breath, scanning the room, feeling the shift in the air.

“Keep it tight,” Tomas’s voice from last night cuts through, his warning sharp in my memory. “They’re watching for cracks.”

Everyone’s still, except the man in the far booth, untouched by the panic, calm as a predator eyeing its prey. He leans forward, arms draped over the backrest like it’s his throne, claiming my bar with a lazy arrogance that sets my teeth on edge. Greasy hair gleams under the red neon, slicked back, catching the glow. A crooked grin splits his face, too wide, too knowing, eyes scanning the room like he’s already won.

“Well, damn,” he says, voice oily, loud enough to carry over thelow jazz hum. “Clumsy night, ain’t it?”

He doesn’t speak again, just smiles, a silent taunt that twists my gut, daring me to wipe it off his face. “Alfeo sent you to test me, didn’t he?” I say, voice low, eyes narrowing, fingers itching to move. “You’re his dog, but I’m no one’s prey.”

“Dog or not, he’s bold,” Tiziano murmurs behind me, his voice steady, a shield I don’t ask for but lean into. “Too bold for his own good.”

Alfeo’s leash has teeth tonight, this man the bite, sent to show they’re not afraid. He’s here, bold in my bar, a message carved in that grin, not hiding, no shadows to cloak him, no pretense of slipping through unseen. His ease is a challenge, daring me to make the first move, to prove I’m as soft as they think.

Tiziano rises from his stool, his presence a steady heat, moving smooth, deliberate, a hunter pacing for the kill. His boots are soft on the wood, hands empty but heavy with intent, focus sharp, a blade honed on the booth man, cutting through the bar’s smoky haze.

“Stay close, Tiziano,” I say, not turning, voice barely audible. “You know what’s coming.”

“Always do,” he replies, stepping to my right, his energy a quiet storm, coiled, waiting, his eyes never leaving the booth.

I reach beneath the bar, fingers brushing the towel shelf, finding the knife Tomas gave me days ago, small, deadly, passed with a nod that promised loyalty. I slide it free, movements veiled by the counter’s edge, the hilt fitting my palm like an extension of my will. The metal’s cold, warming under my grip, steadying the fire in my veins.

“You’re watching, aren’t you?” I say, eyes flicking to the booth, voice low, a challenge. “Think you’ve got me cornered?”

The booth man’s gaze catches my hand’s subtle shift, his smile widening, amused, like he’s begging me to try. “Nice place,” he says, voice dripping mockery, leaning back. “Real cozy for a showdown.”

“Keep talking,” I reply, voice cold, gray eyes locking on his, unyielding. “You won’t like how this ends.”

Tomas slips out from the bar’s far side, fluid, casual, wiping a glass he doesn’t need to clean, cloth moving slow, deliberate. He sets it down, exact, a signal wrapped in routine, then leans against the jukebox, grin easy but eyes hard, scanning every face, every shadow.

“Tomas, you see it, too, don’t you?” I murmur, chest tightening with his loyalty. “They’re not taking you.”

“Got your back, Boss,” he says, voice low, grin fading, his stance ready, covering the door.

Flanks covered, Tomas on one side, Tiziano on the other, a triangle of trust I didn’t build but can’t lose. We’re surrounded—not by numbers, but by intent, eyes lingering too long, hands too still. The bar smells of stale beer, bourbon, and cigarette smoke, the neon buzzing, underscoring the tension. Shadows shift when I blink, whispering plans I feel but can’t see.

“Bianca’s out there, isn’t she?” I say, face tight, voice barely above a whisper. “Pulling strings, thinking I won’t cut them.”

“She’s watching,” Tiziano replies, his breath steady beside me, a rhythm I trust. “Let her. She’ll see what we’re made of.”

Bianca hasn’t shown, but her presence is a pressure, felt in the booth man’s taunt, in the bar’s new pulse. She’s a spider, weaving from the dark, sending dogs to sniff for weakness, testing how much we’ll bend before we snap.

The booth man lifts his drink, glass glinting red, toasting the air, a mockery of respect, draining the bourbon slowly, like he’s got forever. “Message received,” I say, grip on the knife tightening, boots steady as I step from the bar, claiming my ground. “But you’re not walking out smiling.”

“Keep it sharp,” Tiziano murmurs, nodding, his presence a wall of loyalty, blood waiting for my word. Tomas shifts left, body angled to block the door, ready for what might walk through. The regulars stay seated, eyes down, hands clutching drinks, survival keeping them still. The silence screams, louder than any siren, filling the bar with its weight.

The confrontation tightens, a new rhythm thrumming with threat. Not warning shots—the game’s past signals, into something bloodier. The enemy’s here, breathing my air, tainting my bar, their shadows stretching across my world, thinking they can claim it. The booth man’s grin dares me to waver, to show weakness, but I watch back, knife a secret in my hand, my men at my sides, my bar a fortress I’ll burn before I let them take it.

I step closer, knife hidden, heart pounding, the neon’s red glow painting my face, my resolve. Tiziano’s hand brushes my arm, a silent vow; Tomas’s eyes lock on the booth, and the bar holds its breath, waiting for my move. Bianca’s strings are taut, but this is my stage, my script, and I’m rewriting it into a reckoning they won’t survive.

Chapter 16 – Tiziano

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