Page 24 of Veil of Ashes
“It’s me.” I keep my tone even, watching a neon sign flicker red across the street.
She exhales, a soft sound she’d never admit means anything. “Things stirred on your end?” she asks, sharp now.
I hesitate. My thumb brushes the edge of the phone. “Things are quiet,” I lie.
A pause stretches out. “You sound tired,” she says, catching the weight I’m hiding.
“Long day. Everything’s steady.” I force the words out, keeping them flat.
Another pause, longer this time.
“Someone came to my place today. Some of my tools are missing,” she says.
I try to keep my voice level, no need to alarm her.
“Hope you’re safe?”
“Yes, I am.”
We talk on for five minutes. She runs through the courier we tailed, the license plate I traced, the east-side server banks she wants to map.
Her voice picks up when she hits the tech details—code, routes, payments. It’s her anchor, and I let her roll with it.
I stop listening halfway through. My eyes are on the floor, on the hidden compartment I pried open while she talks.
It swings wide now, revealing what’s inside. A hard drive, small and black. Three forged IDs, edges crisp. Two stacks of cash, rubber-banded tight.
And a Glock—old, polished, serial number scratched off. Plan B, built piece by piece. A way out I never wanted to need.
She doesn’t know I’m setting this up. Can’t know.
Her voice cuts back in. “You there?” she asks, pulling me from the stash.
“Yeah,” I say quick. “Just thinking about the route.”
She grunts, accepting it. We wrap up, no goodbyes, just a click as she hangs up. I stare at the phone, then toss it on the counter.
The hard drive glints in the low light. I crouch, running a finger along its edge. Dante taught me loyalty, drilled it into me at that table.
But he never said what to do when it pulls two ways. When it’s her or the cause, and I can’t choose both.
I stand, shoving the compartment shut with my boot. The panel snaps into place, seamless again. My hands itch, restless.
An hour later, I’m on the balcony, lighting a cigarette. The same hand that held her bloodied tools flicks the lighter, flame catching quick.
Smoke curls up, vanishing into the Vegas heat. I lean on the railing, watching the city pulse below, alive and indifferent.
Gia wanted to scare me with that box. Shake me loose, make me flinch. She doesn’t know me as well as she thinks.
That’s her mistake. And she’ll learn it the hard way. I take a drag, letting the burn settle in my lungs.
Sylvara’s voice echoes in my head, hoarse but steady. She’s out there, still fighting, still breathing. I cling to that.
The tools weigh heavy in my pocket. I pull out the stylus, rolling it between my fingers. It’s hers—her mark, her life.
I picture her using it, bent over her ledger, crafting ghosts. The burnisher’s next, its grip fitting my palm like it belongs there.
The loupe stays put, blood and all. I don’t touch it again. Not now. My chest tightens, but I push it down.
