Page 17 of Veil of Dust

The door closes again.

I stay still until the air settles. Then, I open the ledger and flip to the Montclair account.

She’s right.

The numbers don’t line up. Not by much, but enough to create room. Just enough for a few quiet changes to slip through without drawing attention. Paperwork for Vespera’s bar. Permit fees. A shipment buried in the rum delivery last week that she didn’t even know was there.

It’s not sabotage, but it’s close enough to look like it from the outside.

I tear the page out of the book, hold it over the ashtray, and light a match.

The paper catches fast, and the flames climb. Corners curl inward. The ink starts to run. Names vanish into heat.

“You want to flip the game board?”

The page folds as the fire eats through the center.

“You have to destroy the map first.”

Ash curls up, slow and steady. It floats like it wants to be forgiven.

Too late.

Vespera doesn’t know what she’s standing on.

She’s already tied to this.

She’s the piece I’ll burn if I have to.

And if it all starts falling apart?

I’ll use her name to bring it down, no hesitation.

Chapter 4 – Vespera

I drag the last empty keg onto the rusted metal platform at the back entrance, each barrel’s weight jolting through my arms. Beneath the single overhead floodlight, beads of condensation glint on the curved steel like dew on a grave. My shirt clings to my skin, soaked through with sweat and something else I can’t name—an ache that’s more hunger than exhaustion.

I’ve signed the papers—a deal inked in risk and promise. The books are balanced; the permit’s paid; the shipment is mine.

I squeeze the note in my pocket until the paper’s fibers betray it with a sharp tear.

Alfeo’s message reads SELL OR ROT, scrawled in his jagged hand.

My cheek burns with the memory of every threat he’s leveled—empty promises given weight by every man he’s sent after me. I ball what’s left of the note into my palm, crush it further, and let the scraps fall into a puddle of stained water at my feet.

Rain drips steadily through gaps in the corrugated roof, forming thin curtains of water that patter against crates and discarded pallets. The yard smells of spilled beer, damp cardboard, and rot—an interior of decay framed by the purple glow of the bar’s neon sign. Shadows cling to overturned trash bins, and a half-open dumpster sits against the brick wall, its lid bowed and unmoored.

I press my back against the cold cinderblock, muscles coiling. Every instinct I’ve honed—sparring sessions under themurky streetlamps, late-night runs through dark alleys—buzzes beneath my skin. This spot should have been clear. The bouncer at the side door knows better than to let anyone slip into my supply corridor. Yet here, among the shadows and soggy debris, someone waits.

A scraping noise breaks the damp hush. Metallic and deliberate—too measured for the wind. My heart seizes. I pivot without thought, feet sliding on the slick concrete, and spot movement behind the stack of pallets by the dumpster. Rainwater trickles between the slats, pools by a discarded broom, and there, crouched, a figure shifts in the gloom.

His jacket hangs open, soaked, revealing the blade gleaming in the yellow cast of the floodlight. He lunges, silence giving way to violence. He’s fast—his knife a flash of steel—but I’m faster. I slip off the platform, letting my boots thump solidly against the ground. I reach forward and drive my shoulder into his midsection, the impact stealing his breath and sending him stumbling backward.

He rights himself, blade arcing in a sloppy crescent. I step inside his swing and snatch his wrist, bone pressing against bone, twisting until the knife skitters across the concrete. It lands with a hollow ring, echoing against the brick walls. The rain’s patter and the buzz of the neon sign swell in the sudden quiet.

He backs away, clutching his side where I’ve hit him. Pain flares in his eyes. I draw my own blade—balanced, cold, real—and advance. The barrel of my knife rests at his throat. Even in his shock, he tries to match my gaze, but there’s no fire there, only the bewildered panic of a man who miscalculated his mark.

“Leave,” I say, my voice low, each syllable cutting sharper than my steel.

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