Page 40 of Veil of Dust

He leans back, arms folded, relaxed in posture, but his eyes remain locked on me.

“I hear things,” he says. “Out in the bayou. From guys hauling for the trucks. People talk when they think I’m just the one pouring their drinks.”

I don’t say anything, just keep my grip on the blade. My thumb runs along the hilt.

“Alfeo’s sniffing around again,” he says. “More than usual. Not just hotheads. People who don’t come out during business hours.”

“Hitters?”

He nods. “The kind that skip introductions.”

“And you?”

“I don’t like the way he talks about you. Or this place.”

He says it flat. Like it’s not up for debate.

“Did Tiziano start this?” I ask.

“Probably,” Tomas says. “But it was already coming.”

I glance down at the knife, still in my hand, still pointed down, not out. “You picking sides now?”

He shrugs. “Already did.” He nods at the blade. “That’s me putting my bet on you.”

I look at him. Tomas doesn’t hide things well and doesn’t try to. He doesn’t bluff; he just lets people think he does.

Right now, there’s no game in his face.

No hesitation either.

I flip the knife once in my hand, test the balance. It fits.

“You sure you want to be this close?” I ask. “Could cost you.”

He smiles, small. “Closer I am, the better chance I have of staying ahead of it.”

I stare at him a moment longer, waiting for any sign that he’s second-guessing this.

There’s nothing.

I slide the knife into my boot. The steel rests cold against my ankle.

“Thanks,” I say. Quiet. Solid.

He nods.

Then he turns and walks out.

His boots echo down the hall. Faint. Controlled. Then gone.

I wait.

Ten seconds. Fifteen.

Then, I let out the breath I was holding.

Tomas isn’t just the guy behind the bar.

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