Page 37 of Veil of Ashes

No one heard it but the wind. I walked away, boots sinking into soft earth, leaving that light to burn out alone.

The memory fades, and the chapel snaps back—hollow, broken, real. Ettore—the priest—moves past me, heading for the back corridor.

His steps echo on the cracked floor, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t need to. I watch him go, shadow stretching long behind him.

I stand, folders tucked under my arm, and step to the front. Dust swirls in my wake, catching the fractured light from the windows.

A candle stub sits near the old pulpit, blackened at the tip, half-melted into the wood. I pull a match from my pocket, striking it against the pew.

The flame flares, bright and brief. I touch it to the wick, watching the fire take hold—one small, flickering point in the ruin.

The church groans as wind slips through the broken glass, a low moan that fills the space. I stare at the candle, its light trembling against the dark.

It’s not a prayer, not a plea—just memory, burning quiet. Benedetto’s face flashes, eyes wide with trust until they weren’t.

I shake it off, turning away. The folders feel heavier now, solid against my ribs—a way out, a new start, bought with a name I’d locked away.

I step outside, boots crunching on gravel. The sun’s climbed higher, heat pressing down, bleaching the desert white.

The chapel throws long shadows across the stone, jagged lines stretching toward me. I pause, squinting into the glare, tasting ash on the wind.

I’ve got a new name now—Luca Giovanni Santoro. A clean slate, a chance to vanish with her. But my hands still carry blood, sticky and old.

The car waits, dust-coated, engine ticking as it cools. I slide the folders onto the passenger seat, careful, like they might break.

I climb in, slamming the door shut. The sound echoes, sharp and final, swallowed quick by the desert’s quiet.

My fingers grip the wheel, tight enough to ache. A war’s still waiting—Gia, Rizzi, the mess we’ve made. These IDs are our ticket out, but there is work to do first.

I start the engine, gravel spitting under the tires. The church shrinks in the rearview, a dark smear against the sand, fading fast.

Ettore’s words linger—debt, not God. He’s right. I owe too much—to my brother, to Sylvara, to the ghosts I’ve left behind.

The road hums beneath me, stretching east toward Vegas. She’s there, healing, waiting—two days since I stitched her thigh, since she punched my jaw.

I picture her finding the note, eyes narrowing at my handwriting. Don’t follow. She won’t listen, not fully, but she’ll wait.

The sun beats down, relentless, turning the horizon hazy. I roll the window down, letting dry air rush in, carrying the scent of dust and smoke.

The folders sit beside me, sealed tight—our escape, if we make it that far. I gave up my name for them, for her, for a shot at something clean.

But clean doesn’t erase the stains. Not the blood, not the war, not the fire still burning in me. I press the gas harder, engine roaring.

The desert blurs past, empty and vast. Benedetto’s candle flickers in my head—one flame, one memory, one debt I can’t settle.

Chapter 12 – Sylvara

I jolt awake, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped animal. My mother’s lifeless eyes haunt me, staring from that alley where her body lies crumpled and still.

The dream never changes—she dies with her eyes open, and I run.

Sweat drenches my skin, clinging to me in a slick, uncomfortable layer. My breath rattles out, uneven and shaky, as I clutch the edge of the bed. The bedroom looms dim around me, shadows pooling deep, with slivers of streetlight sneaking through the blinds.

The room smells of sweat, ink, and exhaustion, a thick mix that hangs heavy. A cold breeze slips through the cracked window, brushing my arms like a ghost’s touch.

I’m not alone. Kieran sits against the wall, legs bent, watching me with steady eyes that catch the faint light. He’s shirtless, a bottle of water resting in his hand, his bare chest rising with each calm breath.

My hands tremble as I push myself up, the sheets twisting around my legs. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t press, just holds out the bottle. Our fingers brush when I take it—his warm, mine clammy—and a spark jolts through me.

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