Page 45 of Veil of Ashes

The back of the black car feels like a pressure chamber. A block from the Aria Grand Hotel, I watch Sylvara in the mirror as she adjusts her raven-feathered mask. The fabric of her dress catches the dim streetlights—black silk, backless, clinging to her like vengeance. A dagger is strapped to her thigh, tight and real, not costume. She looks like art carved for bloodshed.

Tonight, we’re hunting a painting tied to cartel money—one Rizzi funneled through a shell collector’s gallery. If it sells, we tag the buyer and follow the laundering path. If it doesn’t, Sylvara slips in the tracker herself. But none of that makes this safe.

I lean in to fasten the diamond choker around her neck, careful with the clasp. The transmitter’s hidden in its links—silent now, but set to buzz if she double-taps it. A fallback if something goes wrong. My fingers graze the pulse in her throat—fast, steady, controlled.

“You okay?” I ask, voice low.

Her eyes flick to mine in the glass. “I’m not here to be okay. I’m here to finish something.”

Fair enough.

I settle my own mask—black, plain, no flourishes. She wears hers like she was born behind it. But I know what’s underneath: every scar, every memory.

The car smells of leather, metal, and her perfume—jasmine laced with something sharp. I adjust my cufflinks. The pistol under my jacket presses cold against my ribs. We’re Henri and Sabine Moreau tonight, forged credentials and falsified wealth tied to three offshore accounts I’ve memorized down to the routing digits. She plays the enthusiast; I play the bank.

Our cover’s tight. But my gut is off.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say.

She turns from the mirror, mask obscuring all but her mouth. “Yes, I do.”

The driver taps the steering wheel twice. Showtime.

I open the door, stepping out first. The Vegas night air snaps cool against my face. Sylvara exits after me, heels clicking as she joins me at the curb. She takes my arm, grip firm, like she’s holding more than just character.

Inside the Aria’s lobby, chandeliers bloom overhead, glinting off polished marble. My hand rests against her bare back as we pass through security. She doesn’t flinch. The guards glance at the names on our invitation and wave us through. Our names were pre-cleared days ago—DeFiorenzos’s auctions may be masked, but identity is currency here. Everyone’s pretending to be someone, and everyone knows it.

The elevator doors whisper shut behind us. I watch our reflection in the polished walls. From a distance, we look perfect—controlled, powerful, untouchable.

But I know the stakes. I know what Rizzi did to her mother. What he nearly did to me.

“Keep your distance,” I murmur. “If he recognizes you—”

“He won’t,” she cuts in. “And if he does, I’ll still finish what I came for.”

I don’t reply. I just watch her eyes in the reflection—sharp, storm-colored. She’s already gone somewhere I can’t follow.

The elevator slows. My hand finds the small of her back. This is where the job begins.

The penthouse doors open to a ballroom of velvet and gold, glittering like a wound dressed in silk. Chandeliers drip light over priceless frames and polished predators. The room smells like old money and fresh rot.

Sylvara slips into step beside me. We move as one—partnership layered over tension. Her mask hides her face, but not her aura. She belongs here, more than I ever could.

Eyes swivel as we enter—quick glances, then longer ones. Men clock her dress. Women assess her diamonds. Everyone here is dangerous.

A smooth voice slices through the hum.

“Mr. and Mrs. Moreau,” says Roland DeFiorenzos, the auctioneer. Sleek suit, silver hair, smile too perfect. “A pleasure to welcome such refined collectors.”

“Thank you,” I say evenly. My eyes flick to the clear piece of tech tucked into his ear. The guards must have told him we were on our way in.

First-class service.

Sylvara nods with a practiced smile, arm still looped through mine. Her fingers graze the back of my hand once—our silent check-in.

Roland gestures to the open gallery, and we drift in. Around us, power moves beneath the chatter—cartel lieutenants, shell-company heirs, men who fund wars from the shadows.

Then I feel the air shift.

---