Page 10 of Veil of Dust

Tiziano didn’t leave information; he left a leash, and I don’t take orders.

I run my thumb along the page. The edge bites back, sharp enough to split the skin under my nail.

Good. The sting helps me focus.

I lean back and close my eyes for a second. Jazz trickles in from the other side of the wall. Brass, slow and off-key. Probably something Roy put on to calm the late crowd. In here, though, it sounds distant. Like even the music doesn’t want to be near what this place has become.

I grind the cigarette out under my boot.

This isn’t a job offer. It’s a trap. And Tiziano knew I’d take the bait, knew I’d read the damn book. He walked out expecting it.

Fine.

Let’s see what happens next.

The door slams open, no knock.

Just the kind of noise that makes your ears ring.

Alfeo LaCroix strides in as if he owns the place. He carries the scent of the swamp and old blood. A machete dangles from his right hand, already drawn. He’s prepared. His eyes possess a flat, yellow-brown hue—cold, empty, and dangerous.

“Sell or bleed,” he says.

He swings the blade, hard.

It sinks into the crate nearest me. Glass inside explodes. Rum spills out fast—sharp and thick.

My heart is rock-solid, with no wavering.

He takes two steps closer, and his boots crunch on the floor.

“Your bar’s already falling apart,” he says. “Might as well get something for it before it caves in.”

He towers over me, waiting for me to fold.

I flick ash in the direction of the blade.

“You always show up like this, Alfeo? Or just when you feel small?”

He grins widely. It’s all teeth, with nothing behind it.

He’s in the same coat he wore when he knifed that judge, the same scar on his temple. Still pretending the city’s afraid of him.

I’m not.

“You’ve got a good face,” he says. “But you’re not untouchable.” He crouches, rests a hand on the machete’s handle as he makes a point. “Be smart.”

I stand—not fast, not slow.

Just steady.

Boot scrapes the broken glass. My shoulders square.

He stays crouched, watching me. That smile’s still on his face, but I see the shift in his grip. He expected fear. Expected me to back down.

Too bad.

“If Tiziano sent you,” I say, “he’s even dumber than I thought.”

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