Page 29 of Veil of Dust

I lean in.

There’s a red mark on my neck.

I don’t touch it.

I grab my robe from the back of the door and pull it on, wrapping it tight around my waist. Then, I crack the window open. The breeze is damp, cool, just enough to lift the edge of the curtain.

I stand there for a while, long enough to forget what time it is. Long enough to forget how the night started.

The fight.

The alley.

The body bleeding into the pavement.

The drawer with the ledger inside.

The man who still has fingerprints on my skin.

I go back to the table, sit, and think about Bianca. Her face. Her stare. The way she didn’t blink.

I stand.

The blanket drops from my lap and lands in a heap at my feet. No ceremony, no pause. Just one more thing out of place. My legs ache from sitting too long. My back cracks when I straighten. I didn’t realize how long I’d been in that chair.

The floor is cold. I cross to the window.

Outside, the street is lit in patches—gold from the busted streetlamp, red and yellow from the bar’s neon sign. The rain reflects everything back. Water runs down the street in thin streams, puddling around the storm drain like it’s waiting to carry something away.

The window glass is old, thin, and lacks a proper seal. The rain hits it with quick, light taps. The sound doesn’t soothe; it’s steady but not comforting. It feels like a countdown.

I scan the alley across from the bar.

At first, I miss her. She’s too still, blends in too well with her arms folded and head lowered, leaning against the wall like she belongs there. She has no umbrella. No coat with a hood. She’s not hiding from the rain. It rolls off her, and she doesn’t even bother.

She’s not moving to stay warm. She’s not shifting her weight. Her posture is firm, unshaken.

I blink.

Then, I notice the sharp lines of her jaw, the way her coat fits perfectly. The quiet, calm way she holds herself.

It’s Bianca.

Tiziano’s sister.

The one who stared me down from across the alley a few nights ago. The one who made it clear I wasn’t being watched; I was being evaluated.

She’s not pacing. She’s not walking. She’s standing there with purpose.

At first, I think she’s looking at the building.

Then, she tilts her head slightly—just enough.

She’s looking at my window.

My hand tightens on the curtain.

The candlelight behind me will silhouette my body if I move too fast. I step sideways, slipping into the shadow between the window and the bookshelf.

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