Page 74 of Veil of Ashes

She laughs again, softer this time, a sound that grates as she adjusts her mask with a lazy flick. “You think this changes anything?” she asks, but her hand trembles slight, the first whisper of the poison taking root in her veins.

I set my glass on a passing tray, brushing my gown smooth as I say, “It changes you.” This isn’t vengeance—it’s me stepping into the skin I’ve feared, the one my father carved with every lie he taught me.

Gia doesn’t fight, doesn’t lunge or scream—just watches me with that smile, accepting the game’s end like she’s won it. “Clever girl,” she murmurs, voice fading as she turns, her steps still graceful despite the toxin threading through her blood.

I watch her go, red silk vanishing into the crowd, her fate sealed without a sound.

The gala spins on, masks gleaming under the chandeliers, oblivious to the death I’ve slipped into its veins. I adjust my mask, feeling its lace press tight, a shield I no longer need but wear like a crown.

“You’re done, Gia,” I whisper, tasting victory sharp on my tongue, bitter like ash I’ll learn to swallow.

Gia won't die tonight. But she’ll never dance again.

I no longer fear the mirror—my reflection is mine now, not his, not hers.

The music pulses, a heartbeat under the marble, and I slip through the masked bodies, my mission ticking forward. Kieran’s out there, hunting Dante, and I’ve cleared his path with a smile and a glass, a move Enzo would’ve grinned at.

A waiter brushes past, and I snag another flute, sipping slow as I scan the room, steady now. “One down,” I mutter, feeling the weight of my mother’s jewelry, the legacy I’ve turned into a blade tonight.

Chapter 25 – Kieran

The detonation rumbles low, muffled by velvet drapes and thick walnut walls lining the Veyra mansion’s back corridors. The boom shakes dust loose from the ornate cornices, sending a plume of smoke clawing down the hall as the side entrance to Dante’s study blasts open in a flash of powder and fury.

The hinge snaps with a shrill metal scream, splitting the quiet like a throat being cut. Then comes the hush, real and deep, swallowing the thunder’s echo and leaving only the sound of my breath, heavy and locked tight in my chest.

I move fast, right hand gripping the combat knife, left steady on the silenced pistol as heat seeps through my jacket. My boots crunch over shattered glass as I cross the threshold, smoke curling up the arched ceiling behind me like a phantom trailing my steps.

Every bullet I dodged had his initials carved into it, I think, my pulse pounding a rhythm in my skull. The corridor stretches ahead, dim and narrow, and I spot the first target ten feet down.

He hears me too late, head turning slow, mouth gaping as I close the gap in three strides. My knife sinks under his chin, angled sharp and up, twisting hard—his body jerks once, legs folding like wet paper, blood splashing muted onto the carpet.

I yank the blade free, wiping it quick on his sleeve as I take the next ten feet at a run. My heart slams in time with each step, a drumbeat driving me deeper into this gilded hellhole Dante calls home.

Second guard rounds the corner ahead, rifle already up, mid-shout as our eyes lock in the smoky haze. I dive left, his bullet slamming into the wood paneling where my head was a heartbeat ago, splinters spraying like shrapnel across my path.

I roll hard, pistol snapping up as he pivots, finger twitching on the trigger for another shot. Two quick pulls of my own—one misses, whining past his ear, the second clips his shoulder, red blooming fast as he screams and drops the rifle.

He lunges at me barehanded, a snarl twisting his face, but I’m ready, slamming my shoulder into his chest with all my weight. His wrist cracks under my grip, a wet snap he doesn’t feel yet, and I drive my knee into his gut, elbow crashing into his neck—he’s deadweight before he hits the floor.

I don’t stop, pushing off his limp form as I round the final corner, breath tight in my lungs like a coiled fist. Blood on my hands cools fast, tacky against the knife’s hilt, a reminder of the cost ticking up with every step I take.

Then the third one steps out, moving smooth, like he’s been waiting in the wings for this exact moment. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t hesitate—just fires, the shot slashing through my shoulder above the collarbone, white heat exploding down my arm.

I drop the pistol, staggering as pain flares bright, but he’s charging now, thinking he’s got me reeling.

He doesn’t make it.

I catch him low, grabbing his belt, flipping him over my hip with a grunt as he crashes hard onto the marble, breath knocked clean out of him. My knife’s gone, lost in the scuffle, so I snatch a jagged shard of crystal from the chandelier wreckage embedded in the wall.

I drive it deep into his thigh, twisting as he howls, blood gushing hot over my knuckles. His gun’s mine now—I rip it from his hand, slamming his head into the floor with a crack, and he goes still, a ragdoll in the smoke.

I limp into the study, blood trailing thick from my shoulder, and there he sits—Dante Veyra, perched behind his desk like a king mourning his own crown. He sips red wine from a crystal glass, crimson swirling like blood he’s claimed, no panic in his eyes, just a calm that chills me deeper than the wound throbbing in my flesh.

“Didn’t think you had the balls,” he says, voice smooth as he swirls the glass, appraising me like I’m meat on a hook. My hand trembles at my side—not from fear, but from the leash of restraint I’m fighting to hold, my boots grinding blood and glass into his imported rugs.

“I’ve had them,” I say, stepping closer, my voice rough with the weight of years clawing up my throat. “You just never saw past the leash you thought you tied around my neck, you smug bastard.”

He smirks, leaning back in his leather chair, wine glass balanced casual in one hand while the pistol rests beside him, polished and waiting. “Still someone’s dog, I see,” he says, eyes glinting dark, “Benedetto’s now? Or that girl with the ash on her hands and her daddy’s sins in her veins?”

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