Page 12 of Veil of Ashes

One second I’m alone. The next, crimson silk sweeps into the edge of my vision—liquid fabric, skin-tight over her hips, cut low enough to weaponize. Her heels don’t click against the marble floor. They whisper. Like she doesn’t walk—she arrives.

Gia Lucchesi.

She leans one shoulder against the railing beside me like we’ve been standing together all night.

“Watching Rizzi,” she says, voice velvet-wrapped poison, “or fantasizing?”

I don’t move. Don’t show a damn thing.

Gia doesn’t do casual. She’s not here for nostalgia.

“Surveillance,” I answer. “Keeping tabs. Family business.”

Her smile is slow and serrated. “Of course. Such a loyal soldier.”

She circles me. Slow, fluid. A predator studying the wounded.

Gia was never just an ex. She’s legacy. Veyra royalty. Niece to the old man. He raised her to be sharper than any of his sons. She knew how to read a room before she could legally vote—and how to weaponize what she found inside it before her first high heel ever hit marble.

She stops behind me, close enough that her perfume curls into my throat. Something floral. Expensive. Faint enough to feel like a fingerprint on my pulse.

“You always liked to watch,” she murmurs.

I keep my gaze locked on Rizzi. He hasn’t noticed us. He’s still drowning in smoke and attention, laughing at his own luck.

Gia exhales a laugh, soft but hollow. “So what’s the angle, Kieran? Because I know you. This—” she gestures vaguely toward the casino floor “—isn’t your rhythm. You’re waiting.”

“For what?” I ask.

She taps one lacquered nail against the railing. “For the moment someone looks away long enough to slit their throat.”

I finally look at her.

She looks flawless, but the eyes—those haven’t changed. She’s already thinking ten steps ahead. Calculating damage, payout, leverage. Always was better at chess than me.

“The family sees everything,” she says. “Even what you think you hide.”

I let that sit a second before I answer. “Then they already know Rizzi’s cancer. I’m just mapping the tumor.”

She arches a brow, amused. “You’re not a surgeon, darling. You’re a blade. Don’t cut what you can’t cauterize.”

Her fingers drift toward my chest like she might press against my heart, just to see if it’s still there. I catch her wrist midair. Not hard. Just enough to remind her who I’ve become.

She tilts her head. “Still touchy.”

“You still fish for weak spots.”

She grins. “And you still have them.”

We stand like that—too close, too poised—for just a second too long. She’s enjoying this. The dance. The danger. Maybe even the memory.

But Gia doesn’t linger without a reason.

She reaches into her clutch and pulls out a burner phone. Slim. Black. Unregistered.

She slides it into my hand and closes my fingers around it.

“For when you remember who owns you.”

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