Page 8 of Veil of Dust

I tap the name in the middle. “They thought they were off the radar, too.”

She scans the list. Then, she shoves the paper back toward me. “Is this supposed to scare me?”

“No.”

“Because it doesn’t.”

“Good,” I say. “Fear’s messy. Survival’s cleaner.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Instead, she reaches for the ledger.

I know what she wants to do. She isn’t keeping it.

She wants to shove it back across the bar like it’s filth.

Our fingers graze.

It’s not intentional, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel accidental either.

There it is.

A spark—fast and sharp. Like a live wire to wet skin.

Her breath snags, just for a second. Her posture doesn’t break, but her pupils flare. I catch the shift before she blinks it away.

My mouth twitches—not a smile. Not quite.

She snatches her hand back as if I burned her. Or bit her.

“Don’t touch me,” she says. Her voice is hard, but there’s static behind it.

I let her keep that. She needs the high ground right now.

“Touching you wasn’t the point,” I say, tone low, silk-smooth. “Yet.”

Her glare is surgical. If looks could wound, I’d be leaking from the chest by now. But it’s not just venom behind her stare. There’s heat. There’s hesitation she doesn’t want me to see.

But I do.

I lean in, just enough to cross into her space. Not enough to provoke a slap. Just enough for the heat between us to ignite again.

“Think about it,” I murmur, my voice pitched for her ears alone. “Protection comes with perks.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Then: “From you? I’ll take my chances with the devil.”

“You just met him, sweetheart. And before you ask,” I add, eyes flicking to the door, “my sister Bianca will be watching every move you make. She doesn’t trust anyone, least of all someone mixing mob money behind a bar.”

She exhales sharply, her chest rising and nostrils flaring. Fury rolls off her in waves—but so does something else. The tension between us hums low, like an electric current coiling under her ribs.

She wants to throw me out, but she hasn’t.

And that says more than anything she could.

I drop the cash on the bar: folded, thick. Clean, but untraceable. Not enough to buy her, but enough to bruise her pride if she keeps it. Or intrigue her if she doesn’t.

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