Page 5 of Veil of Dust

He’s the Devi, but not the kind that offers something easy.

The kind that forces you to decide who you are.

I take one step back.

Toward what comes next.

And deep down, under the fear and the weight of everything I’ve lost—something’s clear.

He might be the thing that ends me.

Or the thing I use to start over.

By dawn, the storm finally broke. Rain pounded the windows in sheets, and the alley outside ran glossy with runoff.Lightning rattled the shutters, and even when the clouds passed, the air smelled of wet asphalt and fresh upheaval.

These readings aren’t just warnings; they’re my blueprint for escape. I need enough cash to buy a new name and a one-way ticket out of New Orleans, far from Caldera’s reach. Survival alone isn’t enough; I’ve got to outrun this city and the debts I never asked for.

Chapter 1 – Tiziano

She pours the whiskey like it’s a task she’s done a thousand times.

No wasted motion. No flair. Just habit and focus. The bottle tilts, and liquid hits the glass cleanly. She flicks a lighter, sparks it, and lights someone’s cigarette without breaking her pace.

Her hair catches the neon behind the bar—red in the glow, not soft, not sweet. This isn’t a place for soft things.

She still hasn’t looked at me.

But that’s fine. I can wait. Waiting has its own kind of pressure. And I didn’t come here for pleasantries.

Seventeen hours ago, she called me the Devil.

Could’ve been worse.

I’ve been sitting on this stool for twenty minutes—long enough to blend in. The usual crowd has rolled in: men shaking off jobs they hate, women done pretending to smile. Blues hum low from the speakers, not Leon’s song. She’ll switch to it later when everyone’s gone.

I set the ledger on the bar. I’d first learned its every hidden code under my mentor—known only as S.E., “the Elder”—the man who taught me that blood isn’t enough of a stain to hide a missing dollar.

She notices but doesn’t stop pouring or say anything.

I don’t need permission.

“I need you to clean some money for me,” I say.

No build-up. No smile. Just the facts.

Her hand pauses for maybe two seconds. Then, she finishes the pour and passes the glass to the guy waiting for it.

Still doesn’t look at me.

“Simple job,” I say. “Low risk. Good return.”

That gets her attention.

She looks up, her gray eyes sharp. I expected curiosity, perhaps attitude. But it’s just cold.

“Not interested,” she says. “Find another bar.”

She turns away, heads to the register. Not a full retreat.

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