Page 36 of Veil of Blood

“You used her,” I hiss. “You made her bait.”

He tries to pull away, but I’m heavier, locked on him. I step back for a moment, holstering my pistol with deliberate calm. Then I slip my hand inside my jacket and draw Chiara’s ledger out fully. Pages hiss as they spread across wet wood. I check the cover—Sal Ferrano’s neat scrawl. Inside, his lies.

“Where’s the rest?” I ask. “Who else is on the list?”

He shakes his head. His eyes dart to the fallen duffel. “They took it.”

“They?” I echo.

He swallows. “Javier’s men. They hit me first. Wanted the cash. The ledger was collateral.”

I snap the ledger shut and press it against Sal’s chest. “Then explain why you wrote it. Why you sold out Chiara.”

His face twists—regret and fear colliding. “She was gone. I needed deckhands. I had to feed the crew.”

“By selling your own blood?” I step closer. “By handing over a woman who saved your life?”

He blanches. “I thought she’d never come back.”

A laugh escapes me, low and rough. “She came back.”

He closes his eyes, voice small. “I didn’t know.”

“You always knew—because you wrote it here.” I wave the ledger. “Lines and numbers. Payments.”

He looks down. “I panicked.”

“Panic is a luxury for the living,” I say. “You bury your mistakes or you pay for them.”

Sal takes a step back, knocks against the container. His hand shakes. He’s breathing hard. “Please.”

“Save it.” I lean down, scoop up the first pages. I scan names—Cuban cut lines, Ferrano payouts. Then her name, Falcone, Chiara—status: confirmed alive. “You framed her death,” I say, tone flat. “You got her declared dead.”

He closes his eyes, voice barely a whisper. “It was easier.”

I rise. The dock shifts under my weight. I press the barrel of my pistol against his chest—close enough that he can feel the heat of the metal. “Easier for who?” I ask.

He chokes: “Me. My family.”

I flick my eyes to the ledger. “More lives will die if you don’t fix this.”

He swallows. “Tell me how.”

I drop my pistol but keep my hand near the grip. “By coming clean.”

His shoulders slump. “There’s no clean left.”

I pick up the scattered pages again, gathering them. “Then you make it right.”

He nods once, head down. I step back. “Get out of here. Take them with you.” He glances at the scattered papers and the empty duffel. At me. He scoops both up and disappears into darkness, carrying the ledger like a death sentence.

I don’t chase him. Instead, I hear tires screeching farther down the dock—brighter headlights carving a path through the warehouse door. Two men climb out of a sleek black sedan, pistols drawn, moving toward me. And then I see Javier emerge, tall in a dark shirt, face unreadable.

He calls out: “Damiani! Is this how Ferrano runners do business?”

I slip my pistol from its holster and crouch behind a stack of crates. The first Cuban thug opens fire—bullets strike thecrate above Sal’s head, splinters raining down. I fire back, hitting him once in the shoulder. He drops to one knee, clutching the wound.

The second thug rounds the crate’s edge, pistol raised. He fires twice. One round snaps a railing at my side. The second whistles past my ear. I slide behind an oil drum and fire three quick rounds—he goes down, leg collapsing under him.

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