Page 130 of Veil of Dust

Part of us.

The bayou outside is quiet. The river’s moving steadily. Slow. Peaceful.

I take another sip of coffee. Lean in a little closer to Tiziano.

His warmth is steady. Familiar. His presence has never been louder than it is in silence.

This is ours.

The bar.

The morning.

The future.

Chapter 30 – Tiziano

I pour another round of bourbon. My hands are steady. The candlelight hits the glass just right, making the liquid glow. I’ve done this a hundred times, but tonight it feels like more. Like it means something.

We’re here.

That thought settles deep in my chest. Not like adrenaline. Like relief. A calm I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever. After everything we’ve been through—every hit, every loss—we made it.

Across the room, Vespera laughs.

Her head tips back slightly. Her hair falls across her shoulder. Her eyes are bright, clear. The sound of her laugh cuts through the low hum of music and voices, and for a second, it’s all I hear.

She’s radiant. Not in some dramatic way. Just real. Relaxed. Present. Herself.

And I get to see her like this.

Tomas stands beside her, mid-story, hands moving as he talks. His grin’s wide, full of something real. She leans in, half-amused, half-teasing, and he keeps going, louder now, the two of them holding court near the window.

I don’t catch the story. I don’t need to. What matters is the ease between them. The comfort. It means we did something right.

Tomas has had our backs since the start. Never once asked for more than what we could give. Loyal without needing to be loud about it. He helped us hold this place together when everything else was falling apart.

That matters.

He matters.

I nod to myself. Quiet. Grateful.

The burn mark on my shoulder itches slightly—the place where the old tattoo stretches, faded now. The raven’s wings are still visible, but the lines are lighter. Not as harsh. I used to carry it like a warning. Now it’s just part of the past.

I touch the edge of the bar. Feel the smooth grain under my fingers.

I’m not the same man I was. Not the one who brokered secrets and paid in blood.

I chose her.

She’s the reason I stayed.

I glance at her again. The way she stands. The way she owns every inch of this place without trying. It’s not just strength. It’s clarity. Like she knows exactly who she is.

And I know who I am, because of her.

The jazz in the background shifts, a slow, smoky melody threading through the chatter and clinks. The candles flicker along the shelves, shadows dancing up the walls. The bar feels full—alive, but calm. Every sound feels earned. Every face is familiar.

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