Page 8 of Veil of Smoke

I pull the burner from my inner pocket, thumb across the cracked screen. It takes seconds to type out the message.

Need ID on a woman. South Side florist. Black hair. Green eyes.

I send it to Cam Delaney—corrupt CPD, favors paid in blood and dollars. He won’t ask why. Never does.

T-Bone’s voice plays in my head: She’s a problem.

I exhale hard and stare out at the lake.

She reminds me of Massimo.

Not the look. The feeling.

The first time he walked into a deal thinking he had control—he didn’t even check the perimeter. Trusted the wrong guy. Gave him our route details like it was a handshake.

Two hours later, I’m holding his body together with my hands.

He looked up at me and said, Don’t let it end here.

But it did.

And I’ve been making sure no one else screws the math since.

Now this girl drops into the middle of a smuggling run like she’s stepping into a bookshop. No reason. No backup. No warning.

It doesn’t add up.

If she’s clean, I’ll walk away.

If she’s not, then I already let her see too much.

But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I want her to be more than she is. Maybe that’s the real danger.

I stare out past the docks. Fog hangs thick over the water. The city’s edges vanish behind it.

My voice breaks the haze.

“What the hell are you, Red Thorn?”

Chapter 3 – Viviana

The shop doesn’t feel the same.

I unlock the door at 8:00 sharp, like always. The bell rings overhead, familiar as breath. Everything looks untouched. Marigolds glow from the front display, snapdragons stand tall in the copper buckets. The register blinks its green light like it trusts me.

But the windows rattle under the wind. Not strong, just sharp. The kind that makes you double-check the lock even when you know it’s secure.

I clean the glass anyway, cloth in one hand, spray in the other. My reflection stares back—same green eyes, same dark hair twisted up and pinned back. Same silver locket nestled against my throat.

Except it’s not the same. Not after last night.

Jazz trickles in through the overhead speakers. Brubeck. I let it run.

By the time I finish wiping the display glass, my fingers have tightened around the cloth. I drop it on the counter and unroll a fresh bundle of stems. Marigolds first. Then snapdragons. Orange, gold, blood red.

Each snip of the shears makes me flinch.

I press my lips together. Focus. Trim. Sort. Repeat.

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