Page 35 of Veil of Ashes

He doesn’t argue, just watches me. The bruise on his jaw darkens, spreading under the lamp’s glow. “I kept you out of the worst,” he says.

“Did you?” I ask, voice climbing. “Or did you just keep me in the dark?”

His jaw shifts, but he stays quiet. The fridge hums louder, or maybe it’s my blood, rushing hot in my ears.

I set the gun down, barrel aimed at the wall. My hands tremble once, then settle. “You should’ve told me,” I say, low and hard.

“Would you have listened?” he asks, voice steady. “Or would you have walked?”

I don’t answer. Can’t. Two days ago, I leaned on him, trusted him. Now I’m picking through the rubble of that.

The room closes in, walls tight with clutter—tech, wires, the phone’s guts—a map of how far I’ve fallen.

Thunder cracks again, sharp and close. Rain picks up, drumming the glass, a steady beat against the storm inside me.

I sit, chair creaking under my weight. “She’s got her empire,” I say, eyes on the table. “What’s ours?”

He steps to the desk, leaning on it. “We’ve got Rizzi on the ropes,” he says. “One push, and he’s finished.”

“And Gia?” I ask, head tilting. “She’s not just watching anymore.”

“She’s next,” he says, voice hardening. “After Rizzi, we turn it on her.”

I nod, slow and deliberate. “Together,” I say, testing it out. It feels heavy, real, fragile all at once.

“Or not at all,” he repeats, locking it in place. His hand rests near the phone, mud-streaked fingers still.

We’re not what we were. Not partners, not strangers. We’re carved out of this—fire, lies, and whatever’s left standing.

The lamp glows steady, green light washing the mess. My gun sits ready, a promise I’ll keep if it comes to it.

I look at him, really see him—bruised, soaked, standing there like he’s got no more cards to play. Maybe he doesn’t.

My chest aches, not with rage now, but something deeper, sharper. I hate it, hate him, hate how much I need this to hold.

He meets my gaze, unflinching. Rain pounds harder, a roar outside. We’re bound now, tied tight by this moment.

I grab the phone’s chip, rolling it between my fingers. “We finish this,” I say again, voice firm. “Then we’re gone.”

He nods, a single sharp motion. “Or not at all,” he says, sealing the pact.

We’re not allies. Not lovers. Not enemies. We’re bound by fire, betrayal, and the knowledge that we have nothing left but each other—and whatever reckoning waits next.

Chapter 11 – Kieran

She doesn’t stir when I leave. Not even when the door clicks shut behind me, a quiet snap in the dark. I leave the note on the table—folded, creased once, words short. Back before you need me. Don’t follow.

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the full truth either. Two days since I stitched her up, and she’s healing fast—stitches holding, bruises fading.

The desert wakes slow as I drive west. Vegas shrinks in the rearview, its skyline fading like a half-forgotten sin. The road cuts through dust and bone-dry air.

Gravel rattles under the tires as I pull off the highway. The church looms ahead—a ruin eaten by time, ash-black beams sagging against charred walls. Stained glass glints in the dirt, jagged and bright.

I step inside, boots crunching on debris. Sunlight slices through broken windows, staining the pews with fractured color. The altar’s cracked, the bell tower long gone.

Father Ettore sits in the back, cigarette glowing between his fingers. No collar, just sharp eyes that see through me. He watches, waiting.

“Long drive,” he says, smoke curling around his voice. He takes a drag, letting it hang.

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