Page 62 of Veil of Blood

I clutch the baton in one hand and the security card in the other. I still taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth and feel the sting of perspiration streaked with grime on my skin.

Rocco places a hand on my shoulder. “We get this bar tomorrow. First light.” His words are firm, full of promise.

I exhale and lean against the fence rail. The harbor sparkles faintly in the distance, the water rippling under the glow of distant lights. The ache in my body reminds me that this case is far from over. “Tomorrow,” I agree.

Rocco clears a spot beside the fence and helps me sit down. I press my back against the cold metal, feeling its rough texture through my jacket. My breath comes in shallow gasps, but I force myself to slow it. The night air feels calm once more, as though the harbor has lulled us back into a fragile stillness.

Above us, a single streetlamp flickers, humming like a sputtering engine. My gaze drifts to the horizon, where a thin sliver of dawn glows in pale orange. The world is waking up, but our shadow war will continue in the darkness. I slip my hand into my jacket and touch the security card.

When Rocco carried that battered ledger, we thought we had answers. Now the Shadow’s last words point us to the Bar—Ferrano’s vault of secrets. Nothing will be easy. But for amoment, as the wind whips my hair and dawn approaches, I feel a strange clarity. We have a direction, and I know we’ll see this through.

Rocco and I stand. He offers his arm, and I take it. Together, we begin the short walk back to the safe house. Each step is a reminder of the choices we’ve made—and of what still lies ahead. The Black Anchor Bar is waiting, its secrets locked inside. We have to be ready for whatever comes next.

As we round the corner, the first rays of dawn cast a pale light over the harbor. I taste hope in that light. But I won’t allow myself to be lulled into thinking the war is nearly over. It’s just beginning.

Chapter 22 – Rocco

I walk beside Chiara under the red glow of the Black Anchor Bar’s neon sign. The letters buzz like an insect caught in a jar, flickering over a cracked sidewalk. The bar’s door hangs open just enough for a thin ribbon of light to spill into the night.

When I step inside, the smell hits me immediately: stale whiskey, damp wood, a sharp tang of cigarette ash. Empty glasses line the shelves behind the bar, and a thick layer of dust coats the drink rail. No renovations have been done in decades. With each step, my boots creak on warped floorboards. I scan the room: regulars pressed close to their tables, heads bent over glasses. A hulking man in a corner booth stares at the floor while a scratchy blues track warbles from the jukebox. Their faces stay motionless—eyes on us just long enough to register our presence, then back to their drinks.

Chiara walks in front of me, chain hidden beneath her hoodie, but I catch the flash of metal at her throat. She moves confidently, every step deliberate. I follow closely, hand hovering near my pistol. We approach the bar. Behind it, Gino stands with a bald head tattooed up his neck, arms folded over a round belly. Next to him, Larez wipes a counter rag across a glass, tall frame hunched, eyes narrowing as soon as he spots Chiara and me. Both of them used to run with Ferrano. Now they are obstacles.

Chiara leans against the bar, lips pressed in a line. I slide onto the stool beside her, watching Gino and Larez carefully. Chiara’s voice is calm as she says, “Two shots of whiskey.”

Gino raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Larez pours slowly, setting the glasses before us with a metallic click. Chiara ignores hers. I pick up mine and sip, tasting sharp alcohol. I set the glass back down.

“We’re not here to drink,” Chiara says quietly. The jukebox shifts to another song—slow, mournful country that fills the air with tension.

Larez leans forward and spits on the floor. “So I heard,” he says. “Ferrano’s ledger is burned. Marco’s dead. Javier’s dead. You and that hellhound of yours two-step through ghost stories now.”

I feel disgust coil in my gut, but I keep my voice steady. “Ferrano is still alive. We are here for Dino Ferrano.”

Gino snorts, leaning so close his bald head almost brushes mine. “Dino? You think you can waltz in here, asking for Dino like he’s your great-uncle’s lost prodigy? You’re out of your mind.”

I do not flinch. I meet his gaze evenly. “He is in this city. We have a right to find him.”

Larez chuckles, full of disdain. “You have nothing—no proof, no allies.” He glances toward a locked drawer behind Gino, where cash and receipts sit. “Why should we help you?”

Chiara’s hand tightens around the glass of whiskey. She sets it down without touching the liquid. I see her jaw twitch. I clear my throat. “Because if you don’t, we’ll leave this place in ashes.” My voice is low but full of promise. Gino’s grin vanishes for a fraction of a second. Larez’s nostrils flare.

After a tense beat, Gino nods. “Fine,” he says. “You want Dino? You’ll have to earn it.” He jerks his head toward a side hallway behind the bathroom door. “Go there. Ask for the truth. If you survive, you might get your clue.”

I stand, motioning for Chiara to follow. She rises and they cross the bar together, weaving past booths where no one dares stop us. The bartender—a silent man in a black vest—polishes glasses without ever looking up.

We reach the bathroom door. Gino calls out, “Tell him Dino sends you,” then throws a single key across the bar. It lands in my palm with a cold thunk. Gino and Larez lock eyes on me until Chiara and I turn away.

We move through the narrow hallway, walls painted gray, scuffed by fists and shoulders over the years. A single fluorescent bulb flickers above us. At the end of the corridor stands a locked steel door. The key in my pocket feels heavier now. I slide it into the lock and click it open. The door groans as it swings inward.

Inside is a cramped space lined with filing cabinets and a single desk under a swinging bulb. The air is still, as though this room rarely sees company. Atop the desk lies a small pile of firearms, a few phone chargers, and a single flip phone sitting facedown. Next to it, a desktop computer hums, but its monitor is dark.

I signal to Chiara. She closes the door behind us. The click sounds louder than it should in the silence. Chiara slides to her knees beside the desk and plugs the phone charger into an outlet. I sweep my eyes across the filing cabinets, labels handwritten across their drawers: “Bank Accounts,” “ShellCompanies,” “Safehouses,” and “DINO OPERATIONS.” The last one is what we need.

Chiara taps the side power button of the flip phone. The screen lights up with a GPS lock graphic and coordinates that shift every few seconds. Underneath it scrolls a small map displaying a blinking dot labeled “Dino Ferrano.” Chiara’s eyes widen. She catches my gaze and nods.

“Got it,” she whispers.

I lean forward and flip open the phone. The map updates in real time. Dino’s position is somewhere less than a mile away, moving slowly, as if he doesn’t expect us.

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