Page 85 of Veil of Ashes

The apartment smells like coffee and lemon oil—a scent that settles into the walls, proof someone lives here, not just crashes or scrapes by. It’s early, just past seven, and spring light spills across the floor in thin, golden streaks.

The ceiling fan clicks every eighth spin, a rhythm I’ve memorized without meaning to, while a cracked front window lets the morning breeze tease the edges of a half-folded newspaper on the counter.

I sit at the kitchen table, barefoot, shirtless, cradling a mug that warms my palms. The tile chills my soles, a leftover bite from the night, and outside, a dog barks once, sharp and quick, waking the town with it.

Sylvara’s gone—off to the post office, she said, maybe swinging by the store after. She left a note scrawled in marker on the back of an electric bill envelope:

Milk. Stamps.

That weird chocolate you hate but I crave. Back soon.

A lipstick heart sits beneath it, half smudged where her thumb must’ve brushed it.

This is home now—coffee stains, her messy handwriting, the way the light hits just right. Most mornings, that’s enough to keep me steady.

But not today.

A knock lands on the door—one time, firm—and I glance up from my mug. Barely enough time to stand before the courier’s boots crunch away down the hall.

I cross the room, floor creaking under my steps, and find a small cream-colored envelope on the mat.

No return address.

No stamp.

Just my name on the front, blocky and precise: Kieran.

Not Cole Mercer, the name I’ve worn like a borrowed coat for months.

My real name.

I know the handwriting before my brain catches up—Ettore’s.

The priest.

I carry the envelope back to the table, turning it over in my hands. It’s light, unassuming, but it sits there like it’s been chasing me down, waiting for me to stop running.

My thumb hovers over the edge, tracing the fold, and I tear it open—no hesitation, just a clean rip. Inside, a single typed page slides out, plain and crisp, with F.M. stamped neat in the bottom corner.

Behind it, tucked tight, is an older sheet—faded, creased into quarters, a cartel insignia glaring from the top right, Spanish scribbled in the margin.

My hands stay steady, but my pulse kicks up, a thud I feel in my chest. I unfold the typed page first, eyes skimming the lines.

Kieran—

The records surfaced last week. From Rizzi’s vault. Seized after the takedown splintered the last of his people.

Among them: a will, a small ledger, and two forged identities flagged from fifteen years ago.

Both signed in Enzo D’Agostino’s hand.

As protector.

Dozens of children. Most undocumented. Some trafficked. Some hunted. All buried in the system. Enzo helped get them out. Get them new names. Birthdates. Families.

He forged freedom with the same hands that built graves.

He never told me.

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