Page 53 of Veil of Dust

It was a contract. A command, cold and calculated, signed in red ink and carried out in blood.

I run my fingers over the edge of the paper like that will change what’s printed there, like I can rewrite the truth with touch alone. The ink doesn’t smudge, doesn’t yield.

The basement presses in tighter. Every shadow leans, stretching across the walls like hands reaching for me.

The bulb above me swings harder now, wind howling overhead, rattling the vents with a storm’s impatient growl.

I stand too fast. The stool I was using topples behind me, clattering against the concrete, the sound jarring in the confined space.

My chest aches as if something were just shoved through the center, like a blade I didn’t see coming. My pulse hammers loudly in my ears, drowning out the wind.

The cards knew. Those damn tarot spreads I laughed off, the ones Leon used to read with a smirk, they saw this coming, saw the betrayal lurking in the dark.

And I didn’t listen. I pushed them aside, buried them under work, under survival, under Tiziano.

I swallow hard. My fingers tremble, just for a second, before I clench them into fists to stop it.

He’s in my blood. Tiziano, woven into every piece of me, every scar, every fight.

My loss. Leon’s death, the hole it left, the grief I’ve carried like a second skin.

My fucking bed. Tiziano’s touch, his heat, the way he fills the spaces Leon couldn’t, the way he’s become my anchor and my storm.

The folder lies open, its pages glaring up at me, unyielding. I want to burn it, tear it apart, but it wouldn’t change the truth. Leon’s death wasn’t random, wasn’t a casualty of the life we lived. It was ordered, planned, and executed by the man who made Tiziano what he is.

Tiziano didn’t pull the trigger, didn’t sign the contract, but he’s tied to it, bound to the Elder by blood and loyalty I can’t untangle.

My hands itch to move, to break something, to feel the splinter of wood or glass under my knuckles. Instead, I grip the table harder, the edge biting into my palms, grounding me in the pain.

The storm outside grows louder, wind slamming against the bar’s walls, rattling the crates like they’re trying to speak. The bulb swings wildly, shadows dancing, twisting into shapes that look too much like Leon’s face, then Tiziano’s, then nothing at all.

I force a breath, slow, deliberate, pulling myself back from the edge. The folder’s still there, its secrets spilled, and I can’t unsee them. But I’m not the woman I was when Leon died, not the one who broke and rebuilt herself in the aftermath.

I’m sharper now, forged in blood and fire, in the bayou’s jaws, in Tiziano’s orbit. This truth hurts, cuts deeper than I expected, but it doesn’t undo me.

The machete at my back feels heavier, Tiziano’s gift, a reminder of what we’ve built, what we’ve killed for. He’s not the Elder, not the hand that wrote Leon’s name in red, but he’s part of this world, this machine that chews up lives and spits out contracts.

I don’t know if he knew. If he suspected. If he’s carrying that guilt or just the weight of me.

The wind howls again, a low moan that vibrates through the concrete, and I feel the storm in my bones, in my teeth, urging me to move, to act. I let go of the table, my hands steady now, my trembling buried deep where it can’t touch me.

The folder stays open, a wound I’ll deal with later. For now, I’m alive, and that’s enough. I’ve faced worse than truth, worse than betrayal, and I’m still standing.

Tiziano is upstairs, probably pacing, waiting for me to come up, to face him. I don’t know what I’ll say, what I’ll ask, but I know it won’t be soft. Not with Leon’s name burning in my chest, not with the Elder’s initials carved into my mind.

The basement’s shadows settle, the bulb slowing its sway.

I step back, leaving the folder where it lies. The storm’s close now, its rumble a promise of chaos, but I’m ready.

For the truth.

For Tiziano.

For whatever breaks next.

I storm up the stairs, folder clutched in my hand. The leather burns against my palm, its weight heavier than steel.

My boots hit the wood hard, each step louder than the last, echoing through the empty stairwell. The basement door slams behind me, the sound sharp, final, like a gunshot in the quiet bar.

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