Page 134 of Veil of Dust

Let them come!

My eyes her on her, her gray gaze catching mine, promising we’ll face it, we’ll win it, together, always.

But here, in this bar, in this night, in her arms, her light, we’re free, truly free, a peace poured slow, savored deep, sealed in skin, in love, in us.

This is ours.

I lean against the counter, the jazz soft, the candles warm, her smile my world. And it’s enough. It’s everything. It’s forever.

Epilogue – Tiziano

I wipe the counter in slow, even circles. The cloth moves steadily under my hand, catching the light as it leaves the wood clean and smooth. The smell of bourbon rises up—warm, a little sharp—and helps keep my head clear.

This is ours. I feel it in the quiet rhythm of the work, in the weight of this space. We’ve been through enough to earn it. The blood, the fire, all of it—it wasn’t for nothing. We built something that’s still standing.

The saxophone hums low through the speaker. A slow, easy song. It blends with the sounds of the bar—glasses clinking, laughter cutting through conversation. The place feels good tonight. Alive. Settled.

I scan the room. People leaning in close, passing drinks, smiling without thinking twice about it. It’s not loud. Not forced. Just…free. For the first time in a long time.

And then I hear her laugh.

It cuts through everything else. Light, unguarded. It hits me like something solid—warm in the chest, steadying. I turn my head.

She’s near the window. Lantern light catches her hair, making it look like it’s glowing. Her eyes—green-gray, quiet but sharp—hold something softer tonight. Like she’s finally let herself breathe.

I watch her for a second longer than I should.

She doesn’t see me looking. But that doesn’t matter.

She’s here. That’s enough.

Under my shirt, the edge of my tattoo itches. The ink’s still there, worn and faded across my shoulder. It used to mean something else. A life I’ve walked away from. Not fully gone, but far enough.

The room smells like bourbon and lemon oil and her perfume—subtle, earthy. Familiar.

I wipe my hand on the towel at my side, then slide a shot glass to one of the regulars. He nods. I nod back.

Another part of the rhythm.

I look out across the bar again. I don’t kid myself—we’re not finished. Remnants of Sable are still out there. So are the men who used to follow them. Some of them still talk like they have unfinished business.

But right now, it’s quiet.

And the books are clean. The ledgers are buried deep. No signs of what used to run through this place.

Now, it’s hers. It’s ours.

Vespera moves through the room like she owns it, because she does. Not because she forced it, but because she earned it.

Her black dress moves with her, fitted and sharp. It doesn’t hide the scars. It shows them. Like they’re facts, not wounds. The silver rings on her fingers catch the light. Everything she wears says she’s not hiding who she is.

I feel a rush of something in my chest—pride, maybe. Or love. Or both.

We’re still capable of violence. Still dangerous. But now it’s on our terms.

I touch the chain around my neck. It’s old—my mother’s. I wore it when I was a kid and never took it off. A piece of the past I didn’t have the words for. Now, it reminds me of where I came from. But not in a way that traps me.

This bar…it’s freedom. Not the kind I used to imagine—running off, disappearing. The real kind. Staying. Choosing what to build.

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