Page 59 of Veil of Blood

I check my pistol’s magazine again—six rounds in the tube, one in the chamber. Safety off. I slide it back into the holster at my hip, fingers lingering on the leather. The ledger lies burned and gone, its ashes scattered by the wind, but our alliance is now written on every wound and every heartbeat. This warehouse has been our hiding spot since dawn. We scavenged water from the cracked faucet and shared silence in corners. Now, twilight brings the next assault.

I pull the strap of my holster tight, then glance at Chiara. She tugs at the ends of the bandage, tucking it tight around her thigh. “Warehouse is quiet,” I say, voice low. “That doesn’t mean safe.”

She looks up, eyes clear in the gloom. “No,” she replies. “It never does.”

My gun stays raised as I pivot to check the far door—hinges rusted, but strong enough. I nudge it with my shoulder. No movement beyond. Our footsteps echo from earlier when we stacked crates against the other entrances. That barricade slows them, but it won’t stop them.

I return my gaze to Chiara. She’s replaced the antiseptic wipe in her pocket, then wipes sweat from her forehead. I can’t help but notice how her hair sticks to the bandage on her leg, how her shirt clings to her arm where it’s torn. Each mark tells a story of the last fight.

“You should rest,” I say, crouching beside her. I place a hand on her shoulder. Her skin is warm, blistered from bullet grazes and the sweat of battle.

She gives me a hard look. “I’ll rest when Dino’s dead,” she says.

Her resolve tightens something in my chest. I swallow. “You need to catch your breath.” I unzip my pack and pull out a bottled water. “Drink.”

She accepts it wordlessly and sips, closing her eyes at the first cool taste. I scan our makeshift infirmary—the overturned crate we used as a table, medical supplies scattered across the floor, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol. We’ve run out of painkillers. We’re on adrenaline now.

I stand and holster the pistol. It feels too heavy to carry another second, but I’ll keep it close. I circle the room, running my fingers along the splintered beams. Every shadow hides a possible threat. My knife’s handle presses against my belt, ready.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked mirror panel nailed to the wall. Dark circles under my eyes. Scars threading through my cheek. I look at Chiara’s reflection behind me. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat. We share no illusions that this will end soon.

I step forward, voice softer. “I’ll watch. You rest.”

She shifts and pushes herself up onto her feet. Her legs wobble, but she stands. She locks eyes with me. “I can’t.”

Her words hang in the air. I step close, raising my hand to her face, but I stop. Instead, I reach behind her back and pull the metal pipe from where it rests against the wall. Its cool weight in my palm feels familiar, a tool and a weapon.

She watches me, curiosity flickering. “What’s that for?”

I nod to the barred window. “Second line of defense.”

She exhales and grips my arm. “Just like old times.”

The phrase makes my heart twist. This life—running, fighting—has become our only truth. We find comfort in each other’s presence. No more lies between us.

A sudden roar of engines cuts off our fragile calm. I drop to my knees and press my back into the wall. Chiara hunkers beside me, holding the pipe like a lifeline. I raise my pistol, jury-rigging the light to catch every glint of metal outside.

Voices drift in: “Falcone! Damiani! Come out or we burn it down!”

The threat is loud, taunting. Ferrano’s crew thinks they hold all the power. They think our backs are against the wall.

“This ends now,” I murmur, sliding the window open enough to fire. Smoke curls in at the sharp crack of my shot. A thug falls where he stands, rifle dropping. We don’t pause.

Chiara slips out from behind me and meets me halfway. She raises the pipe and swings it against the next one trying the door. A crack, a grunt, and he staggers back into darkness.

I step out, gun arm steady. Bullets ping off metal beams. Another thug surges in from the left. I sidestep and press the barrel to his chest. One shot, center mass. He collapses, heartbeat stilling.

Chiara spins and bashes in the side door as another man tries to slip through. Her pipe cracks against skull bone. The body drops to the floor.

Gunfire washes over us, but we’re a wall—two forces joined. He comes at me through the open window, rifle raised. I drop my knife, lean in, and knock the gun aside. My fist lands across his face, and I drive the knife into his throat. Blood splatters. He falls, gurgling.

Chiara catches her breath, chest rising fast. She jabs the pipe at the final intruder. He stumbles back, surprise in his eyes. A second strike brings him down.

We stand amid the bodies. Gunpowder haze lingers. We lean against the crate and catch our breaths.

Every muscle aches, every vein thrums. We saved ourselves again.

She’s still breathing. So am I. That’s all I need.

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