Page 27 of Veil of the Past
Death feels like a promise, distant but certain. It waits patiently, just out of reach. I think about it often. What it would feel like to finally let go, to stop breathing, to sink into nothing and never come back. The idea doesn’t scare me. It’s the only thing that doesn’t.
Maybe death will be quiet, I think, the words slow and sluggish in my mind. Maybe it will be dark and empty, and I won’t have to feel anything anymore.
But another thought follows, creeping in like a dark cloud…
Maybe death is just another kind of chain.
Even in death, I wonder if I’d be free. What if it’s worse? What if there’s nothing but the same—the same fear, the same pain, the same emptiness?
The sound of the door creaking open cuts through the stillness. My head stays down, eyes locked on the stained floor. Heavy footsteps echo, sharp and deliberate. I don’t flinch. I know what comes next.
They’re dragging someone in. A girl. Her screams ricochet off the walls, desperate and raw. The scrape of her shoes against the ground fills the room, every movement a battle she’s already lost. Once they have you, they never let you go. Not without a price. Death or money.
“No! Let me go! Let me go!” she yells, voice cracking. Her fight feels distant, like a memory I don’t want to touch. My chest tightens, but I don’t move. I don’t look. I’ve learned not to.
The new ones always fight. They haven’t learned yet. Not like us. Not like me.
We’ve all been dragged through the same routine. The punishment takes care of the fight. The rape takes care of the spirit. Most of them stop resisting after the first time. Some last longer. It doesn’t matter. It all ends the same.
Her screams turn to ragged sobs. The sound fading into the static in my head. I press myself deeper into the corner, my back against the cold wall. She doesn’t know yet—none of them do—that hope only makes it worse. Hope is a poison that keeps you trying long after it’s cost you everything.
The static grows louder, filling the space in my head, drowning out the whispers of my thoughts. The fog thickens again, pulling me deeper. I let it. There’s nothing else to do. I keep staring at the floor, at the cracks in the concrete that never seem to lead anywhere. Just lines, splitting and curling and going nowhere. Like me.
I close my eyes and wait.
For what, I don’t know. For nothing, maybe.
13
ROMIRO
The apartment is dark, the only light spilling in from the vast floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. The skyline is a mosaic of distant lights, skyscrapers that reach up like jagged teeth against the black sky. I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring out into the void, waiting for Nicolo. My fingers tap restlessly on my knee, an anxious rhythm I can’t seem to break.
I hear the elevator doors slide open down the hall. Nicolo’s footsteps are quiet but firm, and I know it’s him before he even steps inside. He moves like a shadow, always has, the kind of presence that fills a room without a word. When he finally appears, he looks almost out of place in the sleek, modern expanse of my apartment, his tailored black suit making him seem even more formidable. His face is carved in stone, unreadable.
He doesn’t waste any time. “Romiro,” he greets me, his tone clipped, business-like. He walks over to the bar, pouring himself a drink without asking, and then one for me. Scotch. Neat. He knows I hate the taste, but I take the glass anyway.
"Nicolo," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, casual, but there’s tension there. I know he hears it, too. If someone from the outside saw us, they’d think we’re merely acquaintances and not brothers. But Nicolo has always veered on the cold, stoic side.
He takes a seat across from me, his eyes never leaving mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. I’m not sure where to start, or if I should start at all. It’s Nicolo who breaks the silence.
"Italy was… productive," he says, swirling his glass. “I was able to close a deal with the Marchese family. They agreed to my terms, and I’ll be able to expand through Naples.”
I nod, trying to focus, trying to keep my mind on the business. "Good," I say, taking a sip of the scotch and forcing myself not to wince at the burn.
Nicolo’s eyes narrow slightly. His eyes are a forest green shade, but they’re so dark they almost look black. I shift in my seat, feeling the tension between us thickening like smoke. I know where this is going, but I’m not sure I want to go there. Not tonight. Not with everything else swirling in my head.
"So," Nicolo continues, "this woman. She resembled Helen? Or are you sure it was Helen? She just shows up out of nowhere after all these years of us thinking she was dead. And you think it’s just a coincidence?"
I swallow, my throat dry. I don’t want to talk about her, but there’s no avoiding it. Not with Nicolo. “It’s not someone who looks like her Nico. It was her,” I tell him. “And no,” I say, my voice low, “It’s not a coincidence. She’s here for a reason. But I don’t know what it is yet.”
Nicolo nods, his gaze still locked on me. “And what do you think that reason is?”
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the memories are clawing at the edges of my mind. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not good. It’s never good with her.”
There’s a long pause, the air between us heavy. Nicolo sets his glass down on the table, leaning forward, his expression softening just a fraction. “Tell me, Romiro,” he says quietly. “What happened… back then?” I never told him—or anyone—about what happened when I was in that hellhole.
I flinch at the question, my heart hammering in my chest. I don’t want to go back there. Not now. Not ever. But he’s looking at me, waiting, and I know he won’t let it go.
