Page 63 of Veil of Ashes

Sylvara turns fully to face him. “You just stopped being there.”

My hand finds her back—just a light touch. She doesn’t move away.

She’s trembling, but not from fear.

Control. Rage. The kind that’s had nowhere to land for years.

Enzo doesn’t look at us now.

“You can stay here for the night,” he says, voice flat. “There’s food. Weapons. I’m sure you’ll want to rest.”

“I’m not here to rest,” she says.

“I figured,” he replies.

We don’t sit.

We don’t thank him.

We just stand there, three bodies in a bunker made of ghosts.

The hum of the generator grows louder, or maybe we’re just out of words.

And we’re still here—trapped in that pause between the past and what comes next.

Enzo leads us down the narrow hallway that splinters off from the main bunker room.

The deeper we go, the colder it gets. Concrete walls sweat faintly in the corners, and the lights overhead buzz like they’re thinking of dying.

He gestures us into a side room.

It’s larger than I expect. Not a bedroom—no cot, no comfort. Just another command center. Blueprints coat the walls—paper yellowed with time, corners pinned down by rusted nails and bits of duct tape. There are markings in red ink everywhere. Routes, drop points, names. The kind of intel you'd expect from a cartel logistics officer or an old war general. Not a father.

I scan the room. Surveillance gear. USB drives. A crate labeled “Veritas Archives.”

Enzo stands beside the largest blueprint, hand tracing the routes. His fingers hover over the Mexican coast, then drag through Central America, halting near Las Vegas.

“I’ve been tracking their supply lines since before Rizzi learned how to spell 'shell company',” he says.

Sylvara doesn’t respond. She stands just behind me, arms folded again, mouth tight.

Enzo taps the corner of the map. “This is how they move the weapons. Under the art. Same smugglers I flagged years ago. Same network.” He turns toward her. “I was helping long before you knew it.”

I cut in, my voice sharper than I want it to be. “Helping? You call this helping?”

He raises an eyebrow.

I step closer. “If you were helping, why did she bleed alone for ten years?”

Enzo’s face hardens, but not with guilt. With resolve.

“Because I was supposed to be dead,” he says. “And I kept living.”

Sylvara speaks for the first time since we entered. Her voice is quiet, but not soft. “Did you ever plan to come back?”

Enzo turns to her. No hesitation in his answer. “No. I planned to finish what I started. Or die trying.”

She flinches like the honesty lands harder than a lie would’ve.

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