Page 18 of Veil of Ashes

She doesn’t flinch. Just watches me. “Careful, Santoro. That’s a dangerous line.”

“Maybe I like danger.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “Then you’re in the right place.”

The hum of the machinery grows louder in my ears. Or maybe it’s my pulse. I don’t know anymore.

Her hand brushes the case, fingers lingering. “This job’s almost done,” she says. “You sticking around?”

“Depends.” I meet her gaze. “You asking me to?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The space between us shrinks again, down to nothing. I smell the solvents on her, the faint trace of ink.

“Finish your business,” she says finally. “Then we’ll see.”

It’s not a yes. Not a no. Just her, holding the line.

I nod, stepping back. “Fair enough.”

She turns to the bench, picking up the stylus again. The UV light shifts, painting her in blue. I watch her work, the precise dip of her hand.

She stretches her hand out, scarred knuckles popping softly. Ink stains her skin, dark against the pale scars.

I step closer, grabbing a glass of water from the edge of the bench. I offer it to her, and our hands brush as she takes it.

She stiffens fast, like she’s touched a hot wire. Water sloshes over the rim, hitting the concrete floor. “Careful,” she snaps, voice sharp. “I don’t break easy,” she adds. “But I don’t like surprises either.” She pulls her hand back, gripping the glass tight.

I lean against the steel wall, arms crossed. “This is justice, you know. What we’re doing here.”

She takes a quick sip, eyes narrowing over the glass. “You want justice? Find a courtroom. I sell lies that feel true.”

“It’s more than that,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’re more than that.”

“Don’t make me more.” She slams the glass down, water splashing again. “You’ll ruin it.”

The air grows thick between us. Her words cut, but there’s a hum beneath them. Something real, tugging at me.

Then it slams into me. Benedetto’s voice tears through my head, loud and desperate. “Kieran, they’re coming!” he’d yelled, hands shaking over a forged ledger.

It was a botched drop. The records we’d slipped into the system got traced. Blood pooled on the ground that night, his panic echoing in my ears.

I blink hard, shoving the memory down. My throat tightens, and my voice shifts. “You think this is about power,” I say, low and rough.

She tilts her head, catching the change. She always does. Her eyes lock on mine, steady and piercing.

“But I’m not fighting for the throne.” I step forward, hands out of my pockets. “I’m fighting to bury the man who stole my blood.”

The words hang there, quiet but loaded. I don’t break her gaze. She doesn’t blink.

“That’s personal,” she says finally. “Not business.”

“Maybe it’s both.” I shift my stance, boots scuffing the floor. “Does it matter?”

“It does if it clouds you.” She stands up, coming closer, voice dropping. “I don’t work with blurry lines.”

I want to spill it all. Benedetto’s screams, the blood, the night that carved me hollow. But if I do, she might walk.

And if I don’t, I’m no different from the bastards who used her. The ones we’re after. My gut twists, caught between the two.

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