Page 3 of Veil of Ashes

“I didn’t want a forgery.” He meets my eyes, steady. “I want art.”

His flattery doesn’t land. I’m already hearing the scrape of a switchblade. The wet sound of a cry that never turned into a scream.

Tony Rizzi.

The name skinned me raw—but I didn’t flinch. Never flinch.

I toss the matchbook back at him. “Get out.”

He doesn’t move.

I hate that he doesn’t move.

My hand tightens under the desk. Not on a weapon—just on my own thigh. Squeezing, anchoring. My heart’s thudding against my ribs like it wants to climb out.

“What’s he to you?” I ask, finally.

Kieran shrugs like the name means less to him than it does to me. “He used to run girls through Laughlin. Now he runs numbers. I need his prints on a few offshore accounts. Make it look real. Deep. Something Dante won’t question.”

“Rizzi’s loyal.”

“He’s sloppy.” Kieran leans in, resting one hand on the desk, knuckles just inches from the ashes I haven’t fully hidden. “And I know he’s got secrets.”

I glare at the cash. A part of me wants to take it and throw it in his face. Another part wants to drag out every forged document I’ve ever made and wrap them around Rizzi’s throat until he chokes on his sins.

But I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just breathe.

Kieran stands straight again. “Think about it.”

He turns to leave like it’s already decided. It probably is.

As he climbs the stairs, he doesn’t look back. The trapdoor shuts with a thud, leaving me in the dark hum of fluorescents and buried memories.

I stare at the tray.

Ash and cash. That’s all that’s left.

My fingers press against my chest, over the chain I never take off. The pendant’s small, delicate. My mother’s. It still smells like her skin when I close my eyes.

I said no. But I already know I’ll say yes.

Chapter 1 – Kieran

Her bunker smells like metal and burned secrets. Just like it smelled yesterday.

I duck under the trapdoor, boots thudding onto concrete, and close the entrance behind me. No greetings. No warmth. Just the faint scent of old bourbon and acid ink, with a sharpness underneath I can’t name. Not quite danger. Not quite welcome.

Sylvara doesn’t look up. She’s got a cigarette between her lips and a scalpel in one hand, shaving the edge of a plastic ID like she’s performing surgery. The light catches the side of her face, tracing the cut of her cheekbone, the smudge of ink near her temple. She’s barefoot. Threadbare jeans and a black camisole that’s nearly transparent beneath the heat lamp overhead.

It’s not an invitation. It’s armor.

She knows I’m watching her. Of course she does.

I take my time walking in, each step intentional. There’s a power in not speaking first. I let my gaze drag across her bench—half-finished visas, scanned bank stubs, a UV light humming lazily. Every item screams precision. Every fingerprint wiped. Except the ones she’s left on purpose.

“You’re back,” she finally says without looking up.

I chuckle. “Yes, I am back.” Sweat is glistening from her forehead as she continues working. “Have you had a chance to review my request?” I ask her, a bit impatient.

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