Page 10 of Veil of Blood

“Watch your angle.”

He shrugs. “It’s not an accusation. It’s an observation. Look, man, I don’t care what happened to her. I care about now.”

I wait.

Javier leans forward. Drops his voice, but not too much. Just enough to carve space between us and the noise.

“Someone in your crew is selling us scraps,” he says. “Stolen manifests, rerouted shipments. Low-level stuff, but steady. We trace it back to an offshore transfer…and guess what name shows up as a payment alias?”

I don’t answer.

He taps the envelope again. “Falcone. Not Chiara’s real name, of course. But it’s close enough. Close enough to make your people look sloppy…or make your ghost look alive.”

I stare at him. His drink sweats onto the table.

“You came for blackmail,” I say. “What do you want?”

Javier grins again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes now.

“Find the traitor,” he says. “Give me a name, and I give you the rest of the ledger. No strings. And if the girl’s alive…she’s yours. However you want to play it.”

I take a long sip of the rum in front of me. No garnish. Strong. Cheap. Burns just enough to help me think.

The music shifts to something faster. The woman in the red tank top sways out of her seat and joins a man near the jukebox. Their hips do all the talking.

I set the glass down.

“She’s dead,” I say again. “But if you’re lying…I’ll find out.”

“Deal or no deal, Damiani?”

I tap the rim of the empty glass. “Deal.”

Javier buttons his coat like he’s just closed a deal on a new yacht. Same smug fingers, same performative flourish. He adjusts the lapel, smooths the collar down, even though the bar’s humid enough to peel paint.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says, then pauses to pick a shred of lint from his sleeve. “Try not to kill the wrong guy.”

Then he walks off, drink still half-full. Like none of it mattered.

I watch him disappear between tables. He knows people here—gives a chin lift to the bartender, a wink to the woman near the jukebox. He exits through the side door instead of the front. Smart. Less chance of being seen.

I stay where I am.

For a long minute, I just sit there.

The photos are still on the table. I don’t touch them again. They don’t need to be touched. They’re already locked in my head—the grain of the image, the shape of the pendant, the smudge of grease on her cheek. It’s not enough to confirm anything. But it’s enough to twist the edge of my memory. Enough to pick at nerves I don’t like acknowledging still exist.

I pull a cigarette from the pack in my breast pocket and light it. No rush. Just motion.

I don’t smoke often. Just when I need the excuse to stop thinking and start watching. I drag once, flick ash into the tray, then lean back and let the rest burn.

Two tables away, someone is laughing too hard. Maybe drunk, maybe nervous. The music’s still spinning on the same scratched record—salsa that hasn’t aged well. No one’s dancing. Not really. The woman in the red top is swaying alone now, her heels barely tapping the tile.

I let the cigarette burn halfway before I feel a bump against my shoulder.

“Rocco.”

I turn.

---