Page 121 of Veil of Secrets

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Page 121 of Veil of Secrets

“You think this stage is yours, Elara?” Calvetti’s voice is smooth, venomous, cutting through the silence. “Drago’s name belongs to me now. Marco was weak, but I’m not.”

I step forward, my heart pounding but my voice steady, defiance burning in my chest. “You’re wrong, Calvetti. This club, this name—it’s ours. And we’re done letting snakes like you slither in.”

Nico shifts beside me, his hand hovering near his knife, eyes locked on Calvetti’s men. “You’re outnumbered,” he says, his voice low, dangerous. “Walk away while you can.”

Calvetti laughs, a cold, grating sound, and snaps his fingers. “Take them.”

The enforcers charge first, brass knuckles gleaming under the stage lights. I dive to the side, grabbing a microphone stand, its weight solid in my hands. The first enforcer swings, his fist grazing my shoulder, pain flaring, but I spin, slamming the stand into his knee with a sickening crunch.

He stumbles, roaring, and I swing again, catching his jaw, blood spraying as he collapses, twitching. Nico meets the second enforcer, dodging a brutal punch and drawing his knife in a fluid motion. His blade slashes across the man’s chest, a deep gash that sends him reeling, blood soaking his shirt as he hits the stage.

The wiry thug with the switchblade targets me, his blade flashing as he lunges. I parry with the stand, metal clanging, and kick a speaker into his shins, toppling him. Before he can recover, I smash the stand’s base into his wrist, bones snapping, his knife skittering across the stage. He screams, clutching his arm, and I kick him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling, gasping for air.

The scarred woman with the chain whip is on Nico, her weapon whistling through the air. It catches his forearm, splitting skin, and he grunts, blood dripping. He ducks her next swing, grabbing a barstool from the stage’s edge and hurling it.

The stool crashes into her chest, knocking her back, and he closes the distance, tackling her to the ground. His knife presses to her throat, but he doesn’t strike, pinning her instead, her whip useless as she struggles.

The crowd watches, breathless, the silence heavy with anticipation. Calvetti stands apart, his revolver drawn now, its barrel glinting as he aims at me. “Enough!” he shouts, his voice sharp with rage. “You think you can defy me? This club, this city—it’s mine!”

I drop the stand, stepping forward, unarmed but unafraid, my chain swaying against my chest. “You’re delusional, Calvetti. This stage, these people—they’re with us. You’re just a ghost clinging to a dead man’s dream.”

Nico rises, leaving the woman pinned, his knife still in hand, blood streaking his arm. “She’s right,” he says, his voice steady, fierce. “You’re not Marco. You’re not even close. Get out before we bury you.”

Calvetti’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening on the revolver, but the crowd stirs, their murmurs growing into a low chant—our name, Drago, rising like a tide. The sound unnerves his men, their resolve wavering.

The wiry thug scrambles to his feet, clutching his broken wrist, and the pinned woman glares but stays down. The first enforcer groans, barely conscious, while the second lies still, blood pooling beneath him.

“You’re making a mistake,” Calvetti snarls, his voice cracking, betraying his fear. “I’ll burn this place to the ground before I let you keep it.”

“Try it,” I say, my voice cold, stepping closer, the stage creaking under my boots. “We’ve faced worse than you and won. This club is ours—earned, not stolen. Run while you still can.”

Calvetti’s jaw clenches, his revolver trembling slightly, but the crowd’s chant grows louder, defiant, filling the room with our power. He glances at his fallen men, then back at us, calculating. “This isn’t over,” he spits, lowering his gun, backing toward the stage’s edge. “I’ll come back, Elara. You and your dog won’t hold this city forever.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Nico says, his voice a low growl, stepping beside me, his bloodied knife glinting. “And next time, you won’t walk away.”

I meet Calvetti’s gaze, unflinching. “You’ll find us right here, Calvetti. Drago’s ours, and we’re not giving it up. Not to you, not to anyone.”

He hesitates, his eyes blazing with hatred, then turns, leaping off the stage, his coat billowing as he vanishes into the shadows. His men scramble after him, dragging the wounded, their retreat chaotic, boots echoing as they flee through the side exit. The door slams shut, and the crowd erupts, their cheers a thunderous wave, reclaiming the room from the threat.

My chest heaves, adrenaline still coursing, the stage slick with blood under my boots. I turn to Nico, his arm bleeding, his face tight with pain but fierce with pride. “You okay?” I ask, my voice soft, just for him, stepping closer.

He wipes blood from his knife, wincing as he flexes his arm. “Been better, but I’m good. You?”

“Sore,” I admit, rubbing my shoulder, the ache settling in. “But we’re still standing.”

The crowd’s chant—Drago, Drago—pulses around us, vibrant and alive. I look out at them, their faces lit with defiance, and feel the weight of what we’ve built. This club, once a prison of fear and shame, is now a fortress, forged in our blood, our will. Calvetti’s threat lingers, but it’s just noise against the strength we’ve claimed.

Nico’s hand finds mine, his fingers rough, blood-streaked, but warm. “He’ll try again,” he says, his voice low, steady. “But he’s scared. We shook him.”

“He should be,” I say, squeezing his hand, my chain glinting under the lights. “We’re not just fighting for this stage—we’re fighting for everything it means.”

He nods, his eyes warm, resolute. “And we’ve got the people with us. That’s what he doesn’t get.”

I turn to the crowd, raising our joined hands, and their cheers surge, wild and joyful, shaking the walls. “This is ours!” I shout, my voice ringing clear, cutting through the noise. “Drago’s ours, and no one’s taking it!”

The response is deafening, a battle cry of unity, strength, defiance. Nico steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine, solid and grounding. “You were incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “They see you, Elara. They believe in you.”

“In us,” I correct, meeting his gaze, feeling the truth of it down to my bones. “This isn’t just my fight. It’s ours.”


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