Page 27 of Veil of Blood

The Ferrano safehouse on the edge of Miami isn’t a house. It’s a cage wrapped in drywall. Concrete floors, no real windows, just steel shutters. Smells like bleach and mildew. The fridge buzzes too loudly. Everything in here feels like it was meant to be temporary but ended up permanent through neglect.

I’m pacing in tight circles, shirt damp against my back, cigar burning between my fingers, but I’m not smoking it. Not really. Just watching it chew through itself while my mind spins around the pictures on the table.

They’re spread out across a scratched metal surface meant for mechanical work, not this. Eight photographs. Six are blurry. Two are clear enough to piss me off.

Chiara’s face. Caught mid-turn. Helmet off. Neckline low enough to see the chain.

Chain matches. Eyes match. Everything matches.

So why the hell is she calling herself Clara?

I stub the cigar on the edge of the table, leave the ember smoking there.

I told myself it wasn’t her. Told myself it was coincidence. Some girl with the same bone structure, same fire under the surface. But I’ve been doing this too long to lie that well.

I don’t move. Just stare at that one shot where the necklace is swinging against her collarbone.

It’s hers. I remember the day she got it. Small job up near Jacksonville. I was supposed to watch her six. She ended up saving mine. We didn’t talk about it after, but she pulled me out from under a bad angle, cut through two of them while I was still on the floor. That night, Marco handed her the chain. A gift. A mark of trust.

She wore it every day. Said she didn’t believe in luck, but she believed in metal that had survived worse than she had.

I run a hand through my hair and press my palms to the edge of the table.

There’s no version of this where she’s not alive. No version where she’s not hiding from us.

So the question is: Why?

The room creaks above me. Maybe a radio. Maybe a busted TV. Whoever’s on the third floor likes their noise distorted. I don’t care enough to knock.

I sit on the arm of the couch, facing the table. The ledgers Marco gave me are still open. Maps. Drop locations. Shipments that didn’t make it to the port. Half the crew thinks it’s the Cubans. The other half thinks it’s someone in our circle.

Marco’s not looking for guesses. He’s looking for a name.

And this photo?

This photo blows a hole through everything.

My burner vibrates across the steel.

I grab it and answer.

Marco’s voice cuts through, no greeting. “I want the leak, Rocco. And I want it fast.”

“Working it.”

“No mistakes. The Cubans get another drop on us, it won’t be just your ass on the line.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Not long—just enough for him to let the pressure sink in. Then he hangs up.

I toss the phone onto the table hard enough that it bounces off the edge and hits the floor.

“You’re making this harder than it has to be, Chiara,” I mutter. Not loud. Just enough to break the rhythm in my head.

I stand again. My legs don’t want to stop moving. I circle the table twice, then stop in front of the photo again.

If she was lying, it wasn’t to con me. It was to survive.

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