Page 50 of Veil of Dust

I crouch next to the body, my breath steady, my heart a calm drum in my chest. I press two fingers to his neck, just below the jaw, where the pulse should be.

Pointless. I know he’s gone. The blood pooling beneath him tells me enough, dark and spreading, mixing with the mud.

The steam from the open cut curls in the morning chill, rising like a ghost into the fog. It catches the faint light, a fleeting shimmer before it’s gone.

He thought this was Alfeo’s territory. Thought I was the bartender’s girl, just another warm body to break or move past, a name to scare and forget.

He thought wrong. Underestimated me, underestimated the steel at my back, the fire in my veins.

I wipe the blade across his shirt, the fabric rough under the steel, soaking up the blood in uneven streaks. I stand, my legs steady, my grip firm on the machete.

The fog begins to break apart under the rising sun, tendrils of mist unraveling to reveal the bayou’s raw edges. Trees loom taller now, their moss dripping like tears.

I slide the machete back into place, its weight settling against my spine, a familiar anchor. Tiziano’s gift, his trust, his violence made mine. I feel him in every step I take, his shadow woven into this moment, steadying me as I leave the body behind.

And I walk away from my first kill.

No panic. My pulse doesn’t race, my hands don’t tremble.

No guilt. There’s no room for it, not when survival demands blood, not when Alfeo’s dogs are circling closer.

Only focus. Sharp, clear, like the blade I wield, like the woman I’ve become.

The swamp watches as I move, its roots slick underfoot, its air thick with the hum of waking insects. The shack fades into the mist behind me, a rotting monument to what I’ve done. I don’t look back.

My boots carve a path through the mud, deliberate, unhurried. The phone in my pocket feels heavier than it should, a key to whatever Alfeo’s planning next. I’ll crack it open later, pull its secrets apart, but for now, I’m alive, and that’s enough.

The sun climbs higher, burning through the fog, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers across the ground. The bayou’s alive, breathing, its pulse matching mine as I leave its jaws behind.

I crouch again and roll his body.

His jacket squelches as I turn him over, the fabric soaked through with mud and blood, heavy under my hands. He lands face-up in the swamp’s embrace, head tilted at an unnatural angle, mouth open like he had one more sentence that didn’t make it out. His skin is pale, waxy, drained of life, the morning chill settling into him like a claim.

I search the inner pockets. My fingers move quick, precise, ignoring the damp chill of his clothes.

Nothing in the left. Just lint and the faint smell of tobacco clinging to the lining.

Inside the right, folded paper. Crumpled, damp, its edges curling from the swamp’s breath. Blood soaks the bottom edge, dark and sticky, smearing under my touch.

I open it carefully. The paper resists, clinging to itself, but I pry it apart without tearing.

Typed. Plain font. No name, no flourish.

Just two words.

Bar’s next.

No threat. Just intent, cold and sharp, like a blade pressed to my throat.

The page smells like gasoline and cheap cologne, a stench that cuts through the swamp’s rot. It’s Alfeo’s calling card, unmistakable, a taunt left for me to find.

He’s not playing games anymore.

He’s drawing maps, marking my bar, my home, as his next target. The words burn into me, not with fear but with fury, a fire that matches the one I’m about to set.

I stare down at the body. His eyes are still open. Cloudy, wide, frozen in shock.

Surprised.

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