Page 51 of Veil of Dust

Good. He didn’t see me coming, didn’t know what I’d become. Let him carry that into whatever’s next.

I leave them that way, unblinking, staring at the sky he’ll never see again.

I stand. Scan the clearing. The shack’s ruins offer enough broken lumber to build what I need, scattered beams and splintered planks half-sunk in the mud.

I drag a few fallen beams together, their wood soft and rotting but heavy enough to hold. Pile branches, snapping them free from low-hanging trees. Snap dry kindling from a nearby log, the crack sharp in the quiet, each piece brittle under my hands.

It takes minutes. My breath stays even, my movements methodical, driven by purpose.

The pyre stands uneven, but high enough to do the job. It looms in the clearing, a jagged throne for the message I’m sending.

I drag the body on top of it. His weight resists, limbs stiffening, but I pull harder. His boots catch on the edge of a root, scraping moss free. I yank again, muscles burning, until he flops over the center of the woodpile, splayed like an offering.

Then I kneel. The mud soaks my knees, cold and unyielding, but I don’t care.

I strike the match. The sulfur flares, sharp and acrid, cut through the swamp’s damp.

The blood helps. So does the oil from his coat, its sheen catching the flame like it was waiting for it.

The fire catches fast, a hungry crackle that spreads across the kindling, licking up the beams.

I step back. The heat pushes against my skin, warm at first, then searing, a wall I don’t cross.

I don’t watch him burn because I like it. The thought doesn’t thrill me, doesn’t twist something dark inside.

I watch him burn because it matters. Because fire makes a line in the sand that no one can ignore, a signal to Alfeo that his scouts don’t come back whole.

This is my war now. Not just Tiziano’s, not just Tomas’s. Mine.

My territory. This bar, this life, this ground I’ve fought to hold.

And I don’t leave threats breathing. Not anymore.

The fire crackles and climbs, loud in the morning quiet, its roar drowning out the faint buzz of insects. Flames twist higher, consuming the wood, the body, the paper I left tucked in his coat. The words “Bar’s next” burn with him, reduced to ash before they can reach me.

Ash rises, drifting into the lightening sky, gray flecks catching the first rays of dawn. The fog thins, peeling back toreveal the bayou’s raw edges, its trees standing like sentinels over my work.

When the blaze takes full and the body is no longer a shape but a shadow, blackened and indistinct, I turn.

And I walk away without looking back. My boots carve a steady path through the mud, each step deliberate, unhurried.

The swamp watches, its air heavy with the scent of smoke and blood. The pyre’s heat lingers on my back, a reminder of what I’ve done, what I’m capable of now. I feel the machete at my spine, Tiziano’s gift, its weight a constant, anchoring me to him even here, miles from the bar. He’s part of this, part of the fire I’ve set, the line I’ve drawn.

My hand brushes the phone in my pocket, the one I took from the scout. It’s a lead, a thread to Alfeo’s plans, but I’ll unravel it later, back at the bar where the world feels solid. For now, the kill is enough, the fire enough, the message sent.

The bayou’s pulse hums underfoot, roots slick and treacherous, but I don’t falter. The trees loom taller as the sun climbs, their moss dripping like mourning veils, but I’m not mourning. I’m alive, sharp, forged anew in this moment.

Tiziano’s face flashes in my mind, blood-streaked from his own hunt, eyes fierce with the same resolve I feel now. We’re bound by this, by the blood we spill, the wars we fight for each other. It’s not soft, not safe, but it’s ours, a tether that pulls me back to him, to the bar, to the fight ahead.

The fog lifts fully, the swamp opening before me, its shadows retreating under the dawn’s light. I move faster now, my breath steady, my heart a drum that doesn’t waver.

Alfeo thinks he can mark my bar, send his dogs to sniff out weakness. He’s wrong. I’m not the woman he expects, not the prey he’s hunting.

Chapter 11 – Vespera

The bulb above me sways, creaking like a noose.

I don’t stop digging. My hands move with purpose, tearing through the crates like I’m clawing at secrets buried too deep.

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