Page 55 of Veil of Dust

He meets my eyes. They’re hollow. Not cold. Not angry. Just empty, like something vital has drained out of him, leaving only echoes.

He clutches the folder tighter. The paper crumples in his grip, edges folding under the pressure of his fingers.

He steps back once, then again, each step deliberate, measured, pulling him further from me.

I stand in the center of the room, chest heaving, his body trembling with the force of what I’ve done, what I’ve said.

He doesn’t say a word. His silence is louder than any defense, heavier than my accusations.

He just turns…and walks out. Not fast, but not slow, either. His boots scuff the floor, a soft sound that cuts deeper than it should.

Gone before I can throw anything else, before I can find more words to wound him.

Gone before I can break more than what’s already cracked between us.

I stand alone, rage and grief bleeding together until I can’t tell them apart. The bar feels too big now, its shadows stretching across the walls, swallowing the space where he stood.

“Love doesn’t survive this,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, a truth I don’t want to hold. “But I do.”

And this time, he’s the one who runs.

The storm outside presses closer, wind rattling the windows, a low moan echoing the ache in my chest.

My boots are rooted to the floor, my hands still tightly closed, the folder lying open on the bar like a wound that won’t close. Leon’s name burns in my mind, circled in red, tied to Tiziano’s mentor, to the man who’s become my everything and my undoing.

The bar’s quiet now, save for the storm’s restless hum, but it’s not empty. It holds me, its walls bearing witness to the fight, to the crack that’s split us open. I feel Tiziano even now, his presence lingering, in the blood I drew, in the folder he couldn’t face.

My fist stings, the skin raw where it met his face, but it’s nothing compared to the hollow ache inside. I hit him because I had to, because the truth demanded something physical, something real. But it didn’t fix anything, didn’t erase Leon’s death or the Elder’s hand behind it.

I step to the bar, my fingers brushing the folder’s edge. The papers are crumpled where Tiziano gripped them, marked by his hands, just like I’m marked by him. I don’t read them again, don’t need to. The truth is in me now, sharp and unyielding, a blade I can’t pull out.

The neon sign outside flickers, casting red light across the counter, pooling around the folder like blood. I imagine Tiziano’s face, the way it fell, the way he didn’t fight back. He’s not the Elder, not the one who ordered Leon’s death, but he’s part of this world, this machine that chews up lives and spits out secrets.

I don’t know if he lied, if he knew more than he admitted. I don’t know if I can trust him again, if I ever fully did. But I know he’s out there now, carrying my fist’s mark, carrying the weight of my grief.

The storm growls louder, rain starting to patter against the windows, a soft hiss that promises more. I stand there, alone, the bar my only witness, and I feel the world shift under me, unsteady, ready to break.

I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.

But love, lust or desire, whatever it was between us, it’s bleeding out, and I don’t know if I can stop it.

The folder stays where it is, open, accusing. I turn away, my boots heavy on the floor, and head toward the back, toward the dark, toward whatever comes next.

Chapter 12 – Tiziano

I kneel on her floor, soaked to the bone. Blood crusts on my bottom lip, a dull sting from her fist hours ago. Rain drips from my coat, pooling under my knees, cold and spreading across the worn rug like a confession I can’t stop.

She stands over me, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the dim glow of a single lamp. Her eyes are flat and gray, not soft, not forgiving. Judgment with a heartbeat, steady and unyielding, cutting deeper than any blade.

“I didn’t know,” I say, my voice rough, scraped raw by guilt and rain.

It’s not enough. The words fall flat, swallowed by the storm’s roar outside.

It never will be. No apology can undo what’s been done, what I’ve let fester.

The jazz moans in the background, a trumpet aching under vinyl crackle, its notes twisting with sorrow. The storm outside answers, wind battering the building like it’s got something to prove, rattling the windows in their frames.

“I didn’t know then,” I say again, forcing the words out, each one heavy with the truth I’ve carried too long. “Not when it mattered.”

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