Page 44 of Veil of Blood

Sal coughs, spitting blood. “Classy,” he croaks. “Even now.”

I step forward and point. “Sit him there. I want him looking at garbage when he talks.”

Rocco stops, nods once, and eases Sal down beside a dented dumpster. Sal lands with a grunt, one bound wrist gouging his arm. He stares at me, eyes bloodshot, head lolling.

I crouch, pinch his chin so he can’t turn away. My boots sink into grit. His stubble scratches my palm.

“Why?” I ask, voice low enough to keep my words private. “Why’d you do it?”

He swallows, rattling breath. “Money,” he spits. “What else?”

His answer lands with a hollow ring. I rise to my full height. Crushing anger burns behind my ribs. He made me into prey. This time, I bite first.

I back up, coil my fist, then punch him across the face. His nose cracks again. He slumps forward, cheek hitting the dumpster’s metal edge. I lean in, voice rough.

“You sold me,” I say. “Like a fender you couldn’t flip.”

Rocco watches, stern but still. His gun rests low across his forearm. He never intervenes at first, letting me drive my fists into second-hand cars and old betrayals. Then he speaks.

“He’s not worth your knuckles,” Rocco says.

I wipe blood from my lip with the back of my hand. My knuckles ache—just what I wanted. “He’s worth my scars,” I say, nodding to my bruised arm. “And my story.”

Sal snorts, air bubbling through broken nostrils. “Ferrano’s little princess, finally fighting her own war,” he mocks.

I flex my fingers and punch again. This time, I land one on his ribs. He gasps, which almost sounds like a laugh. “Not anymore.”

Rocco steps forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Insistent. “Enough,” he says. “Don’t become him.”

I shake him off, stepping back into a pool of grimy water. My breath is ragged, chest pounding. Around us, night is giving way to dawn, but danger hasn’t given way. It lingers in the muggy light.

“He made me this,” I hiss, finger jerking toward Sal.

Rocco’s expression tightens. He raises a hand. “Then let’s finish this your way—but clean.”

I narrow my eyes at Sal. The garbage-lined alley, the dumpster’s rust stains, the graffiti tagging crime’s corners—it’s all background noise. Sal is center frame in my head, and every second he breathes is a lie.

A crunch of gravel stops me. My heart flips. Tires? No. A single car door. Steps. Rocco goes still, stance shifting between me and the alley entrance.

I glance over my shoulder. The alley’s empty. No headlights. But the sound came from out front. Rocco whispers, “Get behind me.”

I back up until my shoulder brushes the building’s damp brick. Rocco positions himself between me and wherever that noise came from. Sal’s head is slumped, face toward the dumpster. He looks finished, but he’ll live to betray again if we let him.

I draw my knife—smooth, familiar metal—and crouch once more. Rocco’s presence at my back makes me breathe easier. “You got my back?”

He nods, jaw set. He checks our perimeter: doorways, fire escapes, shadows. I turn back to Sal.

“Knew about those races,” I say, voice level. “Knew every one I ran.” I slip the knife’s blade between two zip ties. They split with a softpop. Sal shifts at the sound, eyes opening. He sees the blade and drops back.

I cut the second tie and step aside. He tries to rise but crumples onto his knees. I kick him forward until his torso slumps on the dumpster’s lip. He groans into rotten cardboard.

“You want to lie again?” I ask. “Tell me how deep you buried me?”

He coughs, blood flecking his lips. Rocco moves forward and flips Sal’s head so he’s looking at me. Dull metal meets broken glass. I glare without mercy.

Sal’s mouth twitches. “I—we all thought you were gone.”

My hand curls into a fist again. Rocco grips my wrist and pulls me back.

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