Page 57 of Veil of Ashes

Third man staggers back, holes punched through his ribs. He hits the dirt like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then heat explodes through my side.

One last shot, fired from the ground—doesn’t hit bone, but the fire spreads fast. I drop to one knee, gasping.

I didn’t feel the pain at first. Just the cold clarity of being hunted.

Ettore’s hand grabs the back of my shirt and yanks.

I hit the floor, hard, just as another round punches into the chapel’s archway.

Ettore slams the door shut and kicks over one of the pews. We duck behind it.

He’s muttering. Latin. Not prayer—habit.

My vision’s already tunneling.

Blood pours warm across my ribs, soaking my shirt, my waistband.

He tears off a strip of cloth. The edge of his priest’s sash. Wraps it tight. I grunt through my teeth.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters.

“That’s not the word I’d use.”

He presses harder.

I see stars.

“Hold it,” he barks. “You bleed out, I’m not doing your eulogy.”

“I’m not religious anyway.”

“You’re about to be.”

I look down at the dark spreading under his makeshift bandage.

Too much.

I feel it draining.

“Ettore—how the fuck did they find us?”

He doesn’t answer.

He’s staring at the horizon like it’s got something to say.

Something neither of us wants to hear.

Maybe they tracked the microdot. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him.

Maybe it’s just what happens when you spend too long dancing between devils.

I slump back against the chapel wall, head swimming, breath coming shallow.

The stone’s cool against my spine. My hands are slick.

Ettore leans in close. His voice drops low.

---