Page 68 of Veil of Dust

He raises his weapon first, the barrel glinting under the lights, aimed square at my chest.

“Elder pays better,” Jace says, teeth flashing in a grin, his voice thick with greed, with betrayal.

You’re a fool, Jace, I think, my mind cold, clear, even as my heart pounds. And fools don’t last.

I shoot first, my gun clearing the holster in a blur, the trigger smooth under my finger.

One shot.

Head.

Clean. The bullet punches through his skull, a red mist exploding, bone and brain spraying the nearest crate.

His body folds on itself, fast, crumpling to the floor, lifeless before he knows he’s gone.

The room erupts, chaos breaking like a dam.

Chairs crash, metal screeching as men scramble, diving for cover or weapons.

Someone yells, a raw shout of panic, cut short by the noise of movement, of survival.

My voice stays locked, my focus a blade, carving through the mess.

I step around the body, Jace’s blood pooling under my boots, already lining up my next target.

One man, Kirk, loyal enough, covers my six. He kicks the gun away from Jace’s corpse, metal skittering across the concrete, and pulls another from his waistband, his nod quick, steady.

“Got your back, Tiziano,” he says, voice rough but sure, his gun raised, scanning the room with me.

The others?

Scatter, bolting for the corners, the door, like cockroaches under light, their loyalty as thin as the cash on the tables.

Fine.

Let them run. They’re not the ones I need, not the ones who matter.

I only need fire, the kind that burns clean, that leaves no traitors standing.

And a name, the one behind this, the one pulling Jace’s strings, the one I’ll hunt next.

The safehouse reeks of gasoline and blood now, stinging my throat with every breath. The lights buzz louder, flickering, casting wild shadows that twist across the walls, mirroring the chaos. Cash bricks gleam on the tables, untouched, a prize no one’s stupid enough to grab mid-fight.

My gun’s steady in my hand, its weight familiar, an extension of the violence I’ve carried since the bayou, since her. Vespera’s bar, her world, it’s why I’m here, why I don’t hesitate, why Jace’s betrayal only fuels me. The Elder’s shadow looms, his name in Jace’s dying words a lead I’ll follow, but not tonight. Tonight’s for cleaning house.

Kirk moves with me, step for step, his gun tracking the shadows, his loyalty a rare thing in a room of snakes. “More by the crates,” he mutters, nodding left, where two men huddle, weapons half-drawn, eyes wide with the realization they’ve picked the wrong side.

I nod, my lips curling, not a smile but a hunter’s certainty. The map on the table’s useless now, its borders meaningless in the face of this coup, but I don’t need it. I know my ground, know my prey, know what I’m fighting for.

The drum’s flames crackle, ash drifting, mingling with the blood on the floor, a reminder of what’s burned away, what’s left to burn. My raven tattoo itches, a vow etched in ink, in blood, tying me to Vespera, to the fight I’ll never walk away from.

“Let’s end this,” I say, voice low, final, a command to Kirk, to myself, to the room itself.

The safehouse trembles, heat rising, treachery breaking open, and I move, gun raised, ready to carve through the buzzards, to protect what’s mine, to pay my debt in blood and fire.

The phone buzzes in my pocket, a sharp vibration cutting through the safehouse’s dying hum.

I don’t check it right away. My hand stays steady, gun still warm from the last shot, my boots planted in the wreckage.

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