Page 113 of Veil of Dust

“This has to work,” I say under my breath, my fists clenched, my eyes darting to the alley’s shadows. “Just long enough for us to get clear.”

I scuff my boots in the alley’s dirt, leaving deliberate marks—arcs and drags that suggest a struggle that never happened. The pavement is littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, and grime, the kind of place where someone like me might die. Each step I take is calculated, placed where the hunters will see it, where it’ll convince them I bled out here.

The corpse’s face is a mess, torn and bloodied, impossible to recognize. I made sure of that, a brutal necessity to blur his features and make this lie easier. No one will question it when they see my clothes, my name, and assume it’s me.

“Freedom’s got a price,” I mutter, my resolve hard and unwavering. “But it’s not my blood tonight.”

“It’s for her,” I say louder, Vespera’s face flashing in my mind—her gray eyes fierce, her strength the reason I’m kneeling here, covered in someone else’s blood. “Everything’s for her.”

“Damn right,” her voice from last night cuts through my thoughts, firm and unyielding, like she’s standing beside me, holding me accountable.

Vespera watches from the alley’s edge, her presence steadying me, grounding me in this chaos. Her gray eyes are sharp, tracking every move I make, every smear of blood I leave. She’s silent, her arms relaxed, her coat slipping slightly to reveal one shoulder. Her stance is calm but alert, ready to act if something goes wrong.

“You’re keeping me focused,” I say, pausing to meet her gaze, feeling its intensity like a lifeline. “You’re why I’m not screwing this up.”

“You better not,” she replies, her voice low and steady, a challenge laced with trust. “I’m counting on you, Tiziano.”

Her silence earlier today, when we planned this, spoke louder than words. It was a vow we didn’t need to say out loud. Now, her words settle in my chest, sparking hope beneath the weight of what I’m doing.

“You know what this costs,” I say, my voice rough, my fingers slick with blood that isn’t mine. “You know I’d pay it a thousand times for you.”

“I know,” she says, her tone softening, her eyes flickering with something vulnerable, a rare glimpse beneath her tough exterior. “And I’m in this with you.”

She steps closer, her boots quiet on the wet pavement, her shadow merging with mine in the dim light. She hands me a clean black shirt, crisp and new, a symbol of the man I’m about to become. Her fingers brush mine as she passes it over, warm and intentional, a touch that cuts through the cold knot in my chest.

“Don’t pull away,” I say, my throat tight, my skin tingling where her hand lingers. I want to freeze this moment, hold onto her warmth. “Not yet, Vespera.”

“Not yet,” she murmurs, her eyes locking onto mine, gray and fierce, hiding a tremor I sense more than see. “I’m right here.”

The air smells of copper from the blood, mixed with the faint burn of bourbon from a broken bottle nearby and the stale smoke of the city. My shoulder aches, an old injury flaring under the strain, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of Vespera’s gaze, her trust, her presence.

“They’ll be here soon,” I say, flexing my hands, the clean shirt rough in my grip, ready to cover the blood and the past. “They’ll find him, think it’s me, and we’ll get our shot.”

“Let them,” she replies, her voice sharp and final, a promise that she’s all in. “Let them chase a dead man.”

I pull the shirt on, the fabric sliding over my skin, hiding the stains, transforming me into someone new. The alley feels smaller now, the silence heavy, holding the world at bay. It’s just us, just this moment, and the lie we’re building together.

“You’re not weak,” I say, watching her, seeing the fire in her stance, the determination in her eyes. “You’ll hold down the bar, keep things running while I’m gone.”

“And you’ll come back,” she says, her voice fierce, a command and a plea all at once. “You better, Tiziano.”

The pavement is slick under my boots, blood pooling where I stepped, a vivid map of the lie we’ve crafted, brutal and convincing. The streetlamp flickers, casting uneven shadows that seem to watch us, witnesses to our plan.

“I’m doing this right,” I say, scanning the scene, checking every smear of blood, every footprint, every detail. “It’s tight, enough to fool them.”

“It has to be,” she replies, her tone hard, but her eyes softer, trusting me to make this work.

The smell of blood lingers, sharp and metallic, blending with the bourbon and smoke, a reminder of what I’m leaving behind. My hands are steady, but my chest aches, the cost of this lie pressing against my ribs like a bruise.

“I die tonight,” I say, my voice raw, a vow to her, to the plan, to the blood I’ve spilled. “For us.”

“You’re not dying,” she says, stepping closer, her hand gripping my arm, fierce and grounding. “You’re disappearing. There’s a difference.”

“For us,” I repeat, her words sinking in, tying me to her, to the bar, to the life I’m stepping away from. “I’m not gone, not while you’re holding things together.”

Vespera’s hand lingers on my arm, her touch a reminder of why I’m doing this. “You’re taking a hell of a risk,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “But I know you. You’ll pull this off.”

“I have to,” I say, my voice steady despite the weight in my chest. “If I don’t, there are still people who will come for you. For the bar. For everything we’ve built. They are in the shadows, waiting.”

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