Page 41 of Veil of Dust

Good.

The room feels smaller now. Tighter. The rain starts up again, hitting the roof harder. I flex my hand; the cut stings. I glance at the shelf; the rag’s still there.

I think about Tiziano, blood down his sleeves. The look on his face when he came in. Like he’d emptied something out there that he’s not planning to refill.

He did it for me. Didn’t say it, but I know.

And now Tomas has handed me a blade. Another reminder that what’s coming doesn’t care who I used to be.

The knife in my boot feels heavier with that truth.

Tomas is right.

Tiziano might’ve bought time, but he lit a fuse doing it. And Alfeo doesn’t like waiting for things to explode on their own.

I grab another bottle and put it on the shelf. My hands keep moving.

But my thoughts are already ahead of me.

Steel. Blood. Debt.

I’m not ready.

But I’m not backing down.

Not now.

The storeroom door creaks.

I don’t turn right away.

He’s here.

Tiziano moves like the room wants to make space for him. Hours earlier, after telling me he was “done,” he slipped upstairs, boots dragging mud across the steps. Quiet enough to make every part of me go still.

My back straightens. Muscles lock in place. I feel him before I see him.

He smells like steel, sweat, and something older—earth and water. The swamp still clings to him, even hours later.

He steps in without saying anything, but I know exactly where he is—three feet back, near the broken crate I left by the wall. I don’t have to look. I know the way he watches, how still he gets when he’s deciding whether to speak.

I’m stacking bottles. The new bourbon shipment—necks clean, smooth, unbroken. They catch the light just enough to shine. Neat and steady. Not like the rest of us.

He stays quiet. The silence hangs there, full of something I can’t name.

I feel him watching. His eyes don’t move fast. They track everything—shelves, boxes, the rag on the ground, the mess I haven’t cleaned up yet. Then me.

Then the knife I’m threading into the sheath at my belt.

“That from Tomas?” he asks. His voice is low, rough.

I slide the last bottle into place before answering. “He’s paying attention.”

“So am I.”

He’s closer. I didn’t hear him move.

I adjust the sheath. My fingers move steadily, but my pulse doesn’t match.

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