Page 63 of Veil of Blood

Chiara closes the phone and tucks it into her pocket. I move to the computer and press the power button. The screen flickers, and a login prompt appears: “Enter Authorized Passcode or Swipe Keycard.” The keycard Gino tossed to me glints in my hand. I swipe it across the reader. The screen unlocks.

A directory appears: “FERRANO NETWORK,” “JAVIER LEDGER,” “MARCO CONFESSIONS,” “DINO OPERATIONS.” I click “DINO OPERATIONS.” A list of files populates the screen: “SAFEHOUSE COORDINATES,” “TRANSPORT LOGS,” “FERRANO CONTACTS.” The only file highlighted is “LAST KNOWN SAFEHOUSE.” I double-click it. A single address pops up: an abandoned factory on 18th Street, timestamped six hours ago.

I lean back in the metal folding chair, muscles trembling. My ribs throb from yesterday’s fight. My jaw still echoes the Shadow’s punch. Yet seeing Dino’s safehouse confirmseverything we’ve risked. Chiara watches me, breathing hard even now.

“He was here,” I say. “But he’s gone.”

Chiara nods. “Tomorrow, we find him.”

I print the address and tuck the paper into my pocket. I close the desk drawer and leave the computer running—no point shutting it down. We need to move before anyone realizes what’s missing.

I stand, and Chiara joins me. The room feels smaller now, its stale air thick with tension. We back out through the steel door, leaving filing cabinets and scattered papers behind.

In the main room, the jukebox has switched tracks again—this time a slow country lament. The bar’s smoky haze feels heavier. Gino and Larez’s bodies are gone. The bartender continues polishing glasses as though nothing happened. No sirens have arrived. Patrons sip their drinks, oblivious to what we just did.

Chiara flips the sign to “Closed.” We slip out into the alley behind the bar. The night air slaps my face, damp with a hint of salt. I flip open the phone again. Dino’s dot pulses. It points us down the alley, then to the right, toward dim storefronts.

Chiara’s engine hums to life. I slide into the passenger seat and set the phone on the dashboard. The GPS tracks Dino’s location with surprising accuracy—one blink per second on the small map.

Ribs still burning, I tuck the phone into my jacket pocket. My hand rests on the knife at my thigh, a reminder that there is no turning back.

Chiara pulls away from the curb, tires splashing shallow puddles. The streetlights cast long shadows as we merge onto Harbor Street.

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice low.

I breathe deeply and nod. “I will be.” I keep my eyes on the road. The map on the phone gives us the route: twenty blocks to 18th Street, then one block east.

Chiara glances at my ribs. “Still hurts?”

I wince, pressing my hand against the bandage. “Every step,” I admit. “But I can’t lose him now.”

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “We finish this tomorrow,” she says.

I nod. “Tomorrow.” I close my eyes for a moment as the city lights blur past. By dawn, we will be at Dino’s factory. The hunt will end once and for all.

I reopen my eyes and watch Harbor Street’s glow fade behind us. The road ahead is clear. We have what we need: a blinking dot on a screen and a promise to finish what we started. The Black Anchor Bar is already behind us, its neon sign flickering out in the early hours.

Chiara shifts in the driver’s seat. I grip the edge of the seat, bracing for what comes next. My heart pounds, but for the first time in days, I feel something else: certainty.

We don’t run. We move fast, cutting through side streets, weaving past alleys and fenced lots, our steps quick and deliberate, a rhythm we’ve perfected since going underground.

The sirens fade behind us, tangled in someone else’s chaos, leaving only the sound of our footsteps and Chiara’s breathing beside me—quick, steady, alive.

The borrowed apartment is three blocks away, a shadow in the dark, no lights, no neighbors stirring. It’s above a shuttered shop, its rusted gates locked tight, the security camera dangling uselessly, wires exposed.

I jam the key into the lock, push the door open, and usher us inside, keeping the lights off, the darkness our shield.

Chiara’s bag hits the floor by the door with a dull thud. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, just moves into the room, stopping at the kitchen counter.

Her hands grip the edge, knuckles white, her hoodie half-zipped, sweat glistening along her collarbone, catching the faint streetlight seeping through the blinds. I lock the door, check it twice, and the click of the bolt is sharp in the silence.

Then I watch her, my eyes tracing the tremble in her hands, so slight she thinks I won’t notice. But I do. I know that posture, the way adrenaline crashes, leaving you raw, exposed.

She doesn’t cry, doesn’t speak, just holds herself upright, her body a taut wire. I step up behind her, slow, deliberate, and slide my hands to her waist, my fingers resting lightly against the curve of her hips.

I don’t grab, don’t demand—just touch, letting her feel me there. Her body responds before her mind catches up, a subtle shift backward, pressing her ass against me, the contact sending a jolt through my cock, already half-hard from the rush of the night.

“You were a fucking storm in there,” I murmur into her hair, my lips brushing the strands, inhaling the sharp scent of her sweat, her strength.

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