Page 112 of Veil of Smoke

“You just didn’t think she’d bring carbs.”

Rita hoists herself onto the truck bed beside me. “I like carbs. They’re dependable.”

Ten minutes later, T-Bone limps around the corner. His hoodie’s half-zipped, sling crooked across his chest like it’s lost a fight with gravity. He raises one hand like a preacher mid-sermon.

“Glory be, I made it,” he says, climbing up with more drama than his limp deserves. “Who’s got painkillers? Or a muffin. Honestly, I’ll take either.”

Rita passes him a pastry. I hand him some coffee. He makes a face like he’s about to whine, but Rita’s already uncapping a silver flask and tipping a measure in. No one asks what’s in it. We know better.

“Now that’s coffee,” T-Bone says, then winces. “Shit. Laughing hurts.”

We sit like that for a while, the four of us in the truck bed, backs against flower crates, legs dangling out into morning light. The city is just waking up behind us, but here on this cracked patch of gravel, it feels like we exist in a pocket outside of everything.

“Are you two actually gonna go legit now?” Rita asks, biting into a croissant and eyeing me over the edge. “Or just start slinging morality out the back of this truck?”

“No,” I say, brushing crumbs off my lap. “Just flowers. And whiskey, maybe. If the license paperwork isn’t a nightmare.”

T-Bone snorts. “That’s the most honest business I’ve ever heard.”

Rita raises her pastry like a toast. “To whatever comes next.”

We tap coffee cups and flask. Dario still hasn’t moved much, but his shoulder leans a little heavier into me now. I don’t shift away.

It’s not victory we’re toasting. Not survival either. We’re toasting breath. Bruised ribs and broken habits. The fact that we’re here, somehow, still able to laugh.

A breeze brushes past, rustling the edge of a tarp folded behind us. Beneath it, nestled between crates of salvaged bulbs and scavenged tools, a single bloom is opening. White camellia. The tag tied around its stem reads: Rebirth.

I don’t remember packing it. Might’ve been tucked in by Dario, or maybe it just got swept along in the chaos. But it’s here now. Perfect. Unapologetic. Open.

Dario finally speaks, voice low enough that only I catch it.

“That’s you.”

I glance down at him. His profile’s cut sharp in the light. He’s not smiling, exactly. But his lips twitch, and his hand brushes my knee like a reflex.

“Still think I’m dangerous?” I ask, nudging his ankle with mine.

He nods. “But the kind that doesn’t burn down everything. Just the kind that does what needs to be done”

I lean in, forehead resting briefly against his temple. No kiss. No heat. Just contact.

We don’t need heat today. We’ve walked through enough flames.

Across from us, T-Bone’s already halfway through a second pastry. Rita’s pouring more flask into the coffee. For a moment, it’s easy to forget the blood, the smoke, the way we had to claw our way back into the light.

But I don’t forget. I carry it with me. The way you carry a scar—not out of shame, but because it proves you healed.

Dario turns his head, brushes his lips to my temple. I let him. I don’t close my eyes.

Because I want to see this. All of it.

Chapter 28 – Dario

I nudge the loft door open, wood creaking under my hand. Viviana steps inside, barefoot, raindrops glistening on her shoulders from the summer shower outside.

The club below sits dark, a few jazz notes drifting up from a record left spinning, their faint hum threading through the stillness. It’s late, the celebration long faded.

The loft’s bare, just a mattress against the wall, a blanket rumpled over it, crates stacked into rough shelves. Candles perch on every edge, their golden light washing the room soft.

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