Page 37 of Veil of the Past
I hear my phone buzz on the nightstand, the sound breaking through my thoughts. I turn, hesitating for a moment, before walking over and picking it up. It’s a message from Valentina.
Val
Morning! How was your night? Want to grab coffee later?
I smile faintly, grateful for the distraction. Valentina has always been good at sensing when I need a friend, even when I haven’t said a word. I type back quickly, my fingers moving on autopilot.
Me
Morning. Last night was… complicated. But coffee sounds good. Usual spot?
I hit send, and almost immediately, her reply pops up.
Of course! See you in an hour?
I quickly text back.
An hour sounds great! See you then
I nod to myself, setting the phone down. An hour is good. An hour gives me time to pull myself together, put on my best mask and pretend that everything is fine. I head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the remnants of tears and sleeplessness.
I look at myself in the mirror, my eyes still puffy, my skin pale. I take a deep breath, forcing a smile, trying to summon some semblance of normalcy. But all I can see is the uncertainty in my own eyes, the questions that keep swirling in my head.
How do I make him understand that I don’t want to be protected? That I want to stand by his side, face whatever comes together? How do I make him see that keeping us a secret doesn’t make me feel safe—it makes me feel small, insignificant, like a piece of his life he’s too afraid to claim?
I grab my toothbrush, scrubbing away the bitter taste in my mouth, my movements quick and angry. I hate this feeling, this feeling of being helpless, of being stuck in a space where I have no control, no voice. I rinse my mouth, spitting out the toothpaste with more force than necessary, and stare at my reflection, my hands gripping the edge of the sink.
I think about the tattoo again, that blue heart and the barcode underneath, and my stomach twists. How long has he carried that mark, that brand of his past? How many times has he looked at it and been reminded of everything he’s lost, everything he’s endured? And how many times have I looked at it and pretended I didn’t see it, didn’t feel the weight of it pressing against my own skin? I know what his mother did to him, I’ve heard whispers, but I never wanted to believe them. Now, I want him to be honest with me, trust me.
I feel a surge of anger, not at him, but at the world that made him feel like he has to hide, like he has to protect everyone else at the cost of himself. I want to reach into that part of him, pull it out, and show him that he’s worth more than the scars he carries, more than the ghosts that haunt him.
But I don’t know how. I don’t know if I ever will.
I turn away from the mirror, wiping my hands on the towel, and head back to the bedroom. Mr. Marvin is still curled up on the bed, his eyes half-closed, watching me with a curious tilt of his head. “What are you looking at?” I murmur, scratching behind his ear. He purrs softly, his eyes closing again, and I feel a small pang of envy for his simple life , his ability to live in the moment, without worry or fear.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater, glancing at the clock. Thirty minutes until I meet Valentina. I grab my bag, shoving my phone and keys inside, and head toward the door, pausing for a moment to glance back at the empty room.
The weight of this morning settles on my shoulders, a heaviness that I can’t shake. I know I have to find a way to move forward, to figure out what comes next, but right now, all I want to do is breathe, and try to find a little bit of clarity in the chaos.
I step outside, closing the door behind me, and take a deep breath of the cool morning air. The city is waking up around me, not that New York City ever sleeps. The sounds of traffic and voices fill the space, and I feel a small, tentative spark of hope. Maybe today will bring some answers. I’m not sure what’s going to happen next, but I know one thing—I’m not giving up on us. Not yet. Not ever.
17
ROMIRO
Istep onto the cobblestone street of Little Italy, the scent of fresh dough and garlic filling the air, mingling with the smell of strong coffee and the faint traces of last night’s rain. The narrow lane is alive with the chatter of locals, the clinking of glasses, the soft hum of conversation, and laughter. I weave my way through the clusters of tables that spill out onto the sidewalk, shaded by red-and-white striped awnings, vines creeping up the walls beside them. It’s early, just before the lunch rush, and the streets still have that calm-before-the-storm feel.
My destination looms ahead—a small, family-run pizzeria tucked at the corner, with its classic sign readingRistorante Pizzeriain faded letters, the kind of place that looks unassuming but has been here longer than I’ve been alive. It’s a known hideout for the Camorra, one of the few places in the city that’s truly ours. Safe. Or as safe as anywhere can be.
I push open the door, and the smell of freshly baked pizza hits me, warm and inviting. Inside, the red-checkered tablecloths and low lighting create a cozy, almost intimate atmosphere, with framed photographs of old Italian families lining the walls. A few men I recognize from our circle are scattered at the tables, some nodding as I pass, but most keep to themselves. It’s the kind of place where no one asks questions, and where you can talk freely without fear of being overheard.
Emiliano is already here, sitting in the back corner, his posture rigid, his expression hard as stone. He’s nursing a black coffee, his dark eyes scanning the room like he’s expecting trouble any minute. He doesn’t see me at first, but when he does, his face doesn’t change. Just a nod, acknowledging me, but his eyes tell me he’s not in the mood for bullshit today.
Next to him is Dom, leaning back in his chair, looking too relaxed for the kind of meeting this is. His face is unreadable, like always, a cool mask that doesn’t give anything away. He raises his hand in greeting, a lazy wave, like we’re just here for a friendly chat. But I know better.
I slide into the seat across from them, and the waiter, an old man who’s worked here longer than anyone can remember, brings me an espresso without asking. I take a sip, the bitter liquid burning down my throat, and set the cup down with a soft clink.
I’m the first to speak. “Helen’s alive. And she’s here to stir shit up.”
