Page 9 of Veil of Blood

The Cuban bar doesn’t have a sign. Never has.

Wooden door, dark frame, half-fogged windows. Someone once spray-painted a rooster on the brick beside it. It’s still there—faded now, like everything else in this part of town that hasn’t been renovated for bachelorette parties.

I step inside.

Humidity follows me in, clinging to my collar and sticking to the back of my neck. The place is packed. Elbows, knees, and people laughing too hard. A four-top plays dominoes near the door. The bartender looks bored, chewing a toothpick and wiping down a glass that was clean five minutes ago.

Music bumps from the jukebox in the corner—salsa from the seventies. Vinyl scratch, brass section just slightly off-key. The kind of stuff people pretend to dance to when they’re angling to watch who’s walking through the door.

I scan every table.

Two men at the bar. Older, locals. One woman in a red tank top watching herself in the back mirror. A guy in a suit on his phone. And then—

Javier Cruz.

Back booth, alone, sprawled out like he’s got no enemies left in the world. Shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, gold rings too thick for comfort. Grinning like he’s been waiting forever and enjoying the hell out of it.

“You’re late,” he calls, raising a glass of dark rum.

“You’re lucky I showed,” I mutter, sliding onto the stool across from him.

He grins wider. “Don’t make me feel special, cariño.”

I don’t respond. Just lean back slightly and rest one hand on the table—close enough to the pocket where my knife sits, just in case this turns into more than conversation.

Javier lifts a napkin off the table and pulls a small envelope out from underneath. Slides it across like it’s a tip.

I glance at it.

“Photos?” I ask.

“Evidence.”

“Of?”

He taps the edge of his glass. “Ghosts.”

I open the envelope and pull out three prints. Grainy. Zoomed in from a phone or a street cam. A woman at a race, nighttime, industrial backdrop. Head turned three-quarters away. Ponytail. Tank top. Hands on the hood of a modified Camaro, fingers smudged with grease. Neck chain visible.

The photo’s not clear. It’s not supposed to be.

“She look familiar?” Javier asks.

“Can’t tell. It’s blurry.”

“Sure about that? I hear she used to wear a chain just like that.”

I hold the photo longer than I mean to. The chain is thin. Circular pendant. Could be anything. Could be no one.

But it’s not no one.

“Chiara’s dead,” I say.

He watches me, eyes glinting. Not smug. Just interested. “Has been, huh?”

I drop the photo on the table and look up.

“Says who?” he asks. “A fake death certificate signed by a cop who owed your father favors?”

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