Page 33 of Veil of Smoke

“Then I'll go,” I say, stepping forward.

Ignazio grips my arm.

He doesn’t squeeze. Just holds. “Just wait one second.”

But I don’t.

I twist out of his hold, grab the bottle of bleach from under the sink, and step toward the stairwell.

The footsteps get louder.

And then he appears, coming down the stairs.

Same build. Same swagger. Black hoodie, half-zipped, boots stained and scuffed. Different face, but I know the type. Knife already in hand, flicked out casually. He scans the room and grins.

“Well, damn,” he says. “She really is down here.”

His eyes drift past me—to Ignazio.

I don’t wait.

I throw the bleach.

The stream arcs and catches him full in the face. He screams, loud and raw, hand flying to his eyes. The knife drops, clattering across the floor.

I grab the florist’s pipe stand from beside the shelf and swing hard.

The steel connects with his ribs. A hard crunch.

He stumbles backward into the shelves. Vases fall, shatter. He roars, grabbing at me. I hit again—shoulder, temple—then duck his grasp.

He lunges. One hand catches my sleeve. I yank free and jam the pipe into his gut. He folds forward.

That’s when Ignazio moves.

He crosses the floor fast, grabs the man by the back of the hood, and slams him into the wall. One arm across his throat, one hand yanking his wrists behind his back.

Gun still drawn.

I stumble back, panting. My shoulder aches. My fingers burn where the pipe rubbed skin raw.

“You’re done,” Ignazio growls.

The man wheezes. Bleach streaks his cheek. His voice is hoarse.

“She was supposed to be alone.”

Ignazio doesn’t flinch.

“Guess you screwed up,” he mutters, dragging him back toward the stairs.

I don’t move.

He cuffs the guy roughly, keeping the pressure on his spine as they reach the steps.

“Where are you taking him?” I ask.

“I’ve got it.”

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