Page 45 of Veil of Blood

“Enough,” he says softly.

I lower my fist. My heart hammers. He lifts Sal’s chin again. Sal stares into my eyes, dark and raw. I tighten my fingers around my knife, but I don’t lash out.

Instead, I kneel beside Sal, close enough to feel his sweat. I press my free hand under his chin, tilting his head. I look for any hint of regret in his eyes. Instead, I see dread.

He swallows once. “I sold your name,” he whispers. “I sold it because they paid. They paid for every step, every race. I thought you were dust. I thought it was safe.”

His voice cracks. I taste his fear. I swallow the last spark of mercy.

He’ll live. Enough to fix this.

I stand. Rocco stays kneeling behind me, scanning the alley.

“Come on,” I say to Sal. “You’re going to tell us how to reach them.”

Sal’s head bows. He looks at Rocco, then at me. My gaze holds him in place, unforgiving.

“Okay,” he admits. “Javier’s men—they moved through Bayfront. They’re hitting drop points at sunrise. If you want to find Javier, you go through that network.”

I nod twice. Rocco stands. He grabs Sal under his arms and hauls him up. Sal limps forward, leaning on Rocco.

I flick the knife closed and slip it into my back pocket. The alley’s gravel crunches under boots as we head toward the garage door.

With every step, the past fades a fraction. Ahead, a new fight waits. But I walk ready—scarred, angry, and certain.

The dawn light’s only just creeping into the alley when a black luxury car slides to a stop at its mouth. Exhaust hisses. The engine cuts. The passenger window rolls down in one smooth motion. I press my back against the damp brick and grip Rocco’s sleeve.

Javier Cruz steps out. Silk shirt open at the throat, designer jeans, a grin that reeks of confidence.

“Falcone,” he says, voice casual. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”

My response comes cold. “Still trying to grow a real pair, I see.”

He tilts his head, his smile widening. “I brought friends this time.”

Two more cars rumble to a stop behind him. Bullets of steel glint in the barrels aimed our way.

I glance over at Sal’s body. His chest heaves once, twice, then stills. Blood seeps through his shirt. His eyes are blank.

Sal tries to crawl, hands scrabbling at the concrete. “Javier—help me!” he begs.

Javier lifts his pistol, aims, and fires.

The shot echoes off the walls. Sal’s head jerks back. A bubble of blood blossoms at his lip. He gurgles, his body folding. His blood pools in the gutter.

My heart stops. I can’t move at first. Then I feel Rocco’s hand onmy arm, urging.

“Run,” he says.

I tear away from Sal and sprint behind a stack of wooden crates. Rocco follows closely. My boots slap wet concrete; my lungs burn.

Gunfire cracks. Javier’s men pour rounds into the alley. Splinters fly from the crates. I dodge, crouch, and Rocco fires back. One bullet grazes a thug’s arm, throwing him into a pile of trash.

He curses and swings his pistol wildly. A round smacks overhead, throwing down a chunk of peeling paint.

Rocco grabs my hand. “We’ll break left. You take the ledger. I cover.”

I slip the battered notebook from my jacket and tuck it under my arm. Sal’s betrayal, his final moments, the names of his buyers—they’re all in here. It’s my map to Javier. And now, to Sal’s end.

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