Page 27 of Veil of Dust

She’s gone, but her scent lingers—smoke, sweat, and her. It’s burned into me now, a scar I’ll carry.

This wasn’t a moment. It was a fucking war.

And we’re not done.

Chapter 6 – Vespera

I haven’t showered.

Tiziano’s sweat is still on my skin. It’s dried in the bends of my arms, behind my knees, between my thighs. I can feel it every time I shift. My clothes are still in the hallway—shirt hanging over the stair railing, skirt bunched up on the steps. I passed them on the way up and didn’t bother picking them up.

Now, I’m at the kitchen table, legs folded under me, wrapped in a cotton blanket. The wood’s cool under my feet. My hair’s still tangled. It falls over my shoulder in loose, uneven knots.

The tarot deck sits in front of me.

I take a breath, but I’m not trying to calm myself; I need to focus.

I need to reset. Pull it back in. Get control.

I shuffle the cards. The edges are worn from use. The motion helps. My hands fall into a rhythm. It’s muscle memory.

Outside, the rain hasn’t let up. It taps on the windows in a fast, steady rhythm. Not heavy, just constant. Like someone knocking over and over, waiting to be let in.

The candle flickers once. Just once.

I keep shuffling.

My fingers still smell like bourbon. And blood.

I press my palm down on the deck.

“I let him in,” I say quietly. “Once. That doesn’t mean I’m his.”

The candle jumps—one small flare before settling again.

I pull the top card.

Queen of Swords.

Figures.

I look at the card. The woman on it sits tall, holding a blade. Her face is sharp, and her robe is layered and stiff. There’s no warmth in her, no softness.

She’s not there to comfort anyone. She’s there to judge.

Queen of Swords: sharp judgment that cuts through illusions.

I slip on my jacket, check the angle of the floodlight over the storeroom door, and make a mental note to ask Tomas about adding a second camera. If that queen demands clarity, I’ll give her every shadow under a spotlight.

My mouth pulls tight. “Bianca,” I say out loud.

Tiziano’s sister. The one who stood across the street two nights ago, arms crossed, watching me like she’d already made up her mind. She didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. Didn’t pretend to care if I saw her. Just turned and walked away like she had better things to do.

She’s the one I didn’t factor in. The one he never mentioned. Not once.

That says everything.

Bianca isn’t some assistant he sends to check on problems. She’s the one people send when they want something dealt with quietly—and permanently.

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