Page 72 of Veil of Ashes
“Once Veyra’s dead,” he says, “call the number I marked. I’ll have a car waiting by the Hoover cutoff. Leave that night. Don’t linger.”
“I won’t,” she says, her voice steady. “And if he lives?”
Ettore’s mouth hardens. “Don’t let that happen.”
The sky outside is bleeding twilight.
The chapel door groans open on rusted hinges.
I step out first. The sand crunches under my boots.
Behind me, I hear Sylvara follow.
And then the door creaks shut.
I press the forged passport I kept to my chest. It’s warm from Ettore’s hands.
I whisper the name that matters more than mine ever did.
“Ettore.”
Some debts don’t get erased.
Only transferred.
And mine was coming due.
Chapter 24 – Sylvara
I stand before the cracked mirror in the safehouse bedroom, sliding into a floor-length black gown that molds to me like a shadow stitched with secrets. Hidden slits along the thighs promise freedom. My mother’s earrings—opals in antique gold—glint against my collarbones as I fasten them.
You’re with me tonight.
I lift the white lace mask, its threads delicate but unyielding. A shield. A disguise. A weapon.
Time to play their game.
My eyes harden behind it, turning me into a figure of elegance and venom, ready to step into the gala like a blade in silk.
My fingers brush the forged invitation, hand-inked on thick paper with every swirl a lie I perfected over sleepless nights.
I tuck the forged invitation into my clutch—hand-inked lies I perfected over sleepless nights.
Perfect. They won’t blink twice. Sylvara D’Agostino. A name they’ll regret letting through those gates.
I step out into the warm Vegas night, city lights drowning the stars as I slide into the car purring at the curb. “Drive,” I tell the wheelman, smoothing the gown over my knees, my mind already pacing the marble halls ahead, a queen reclaiming a throne lost to ash and blood.
I'm not just crashing the ball. I'm rewriting the ending.
The Veyra mansion looms ahead, all marble, glass, and moneyed arrogance. The gates part. I hand over the invitation, give a cool nod. The guards wave me in.
Inside, gold chandeliers burn bright over polished floors. Masked bodies sway beneath them, music curling through the air like perfume laced with poison. I glide into the crowd, every step deliberate, every move masked as elegance but drawn sharp underneath.
Where are you, Gia?
My mother wore these earrings the night she died, their opals glinting as she laughed with guests, blind to the blood waiting in the wings. I wear them tonight as armor, whispering, “For you,” their weight a tether to her ghost, sharpening every shadow in this glittering pit of vipers.
I pause by a marble pillar, fingers grazing the slit where a dagger hides strapped to my thigh, its steel cool against my skin. “Stay sharp,” I tell myself, scanning the crowd—feathers brushing shoulders—but Gia’s not here yet, and I keep my breath steady, my focus lethal.
