Chapter 7 – Kieran
The sun beats down like it’s got a grudge, hot and merciless. Last night’s kiss with Sylvara flickers in my head—a jagged memory of rain and weakness, her lips crashing into mine, a moment I let myself enjoy too much before she pulled away.
Dust whips across the lot as I roll up to the Veyra garage, tires crunching gravel.
It’s a fake luxury body shop, stuck on Vegas’s outer rim like a punishment. The outside gleams—shiny signs, tinted windows, a valet booth abandoned for years. Step inside, though, and it’s all oil, sweat, and buried secrets.
I park near the back, cutting the engine. The loading bay greets me with burnt rubber and brake fluid stench. A Bentley sits gutted on a lift, parts dangling like a dissected corpse.
A teenage mechanic glances up, Veyra ink curling around his throat. He nods once, then goes back to wrenching bolts he probably doesn’t get. I nod back, boots hitting the concrete as I move past.
This was meant to be quick. A routine check-in, some low-level courier run tied to accounting receipts from a Paradise Hills poker house. Fifteen minutes, in and out.
But the back room changes everything. I push through the door, and there it is. A box.
Plain brown cardboard, smudged with oil or ink, maybe both. No label, no name, just a black slash across the top, half-finished, like someone started writing and quit.
It sits dead center on the desk, waiting. Like a trap ready to spring.
No one’s here but a kid by the door. Skinny, twitchy, barely eighteen. He shifts his weight when my eyes land on him, hands fidgeting at his sides.
I jerk my chin at the box. “That yours?”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Came in an hour ago. Said it was for you. No signature.”
I step to the desk, fingers brushing the box. I open it carefully.
Inside, three things stare back at me. Sylvara’s stylus—titanium, sleek, etched with Venetian script she once showed me late at night. Her burnisher—matte black, grip worn from years of her hands.
And her magnifying loupe. The lens sits cracked, the frame smeared dark red. Blood.
My stomach twists into a knot.
This isn’t a kill. It’s a message.
I lift the loupe, careful, like the blood might still carry her heat. It’s cold, sticky against my fingertips. I turn to the kid, voice low.
“Who brought this?”
He stammers, tripping over his tongue. “Some driver. Black car. Said he worked for—for the Red Siren.”
Gia!
My vision narrows, the room shrinking to a pinpoint. The kid’s still talking, but I barely hear him.
I grab his shirt, hauling him up. I slam him against the wall—not hard enough to break anything, just enough to rattle him. His feet scrape the floor, eyes popping wide.
“She say anything?” I ask, keeping my grip steady.
He nods fast, panicked. “S-she said it’s just a reminder. Said you’d know what that means.”
I hold him there, letting his fear fill the space. It rolls off him, sour and thick. Then I release him.
He drops, crumpling into a heap, gasping like he’s forgotten how to breathe. I step back, looming over him.
“Tell her I do,” I say, voice flat. “And tell her I’m done with reminders.”
He scrambles up, bolting for the door. His shoes squeak as he vanishes into the garage, leaving me alone.
I stand there, the loupe heavy in my hand. Blood crusts under my nails, Sylvara’s tools glinting in the dim light.
Thunder rumbles somewhere distant, a low growl rolling in. My pulse thuds in my ears, steady but loud.
All I can think is how fast I need to torch this city to ash. Gia’s playing games, and Sylvara’s caught in the crosshairs.
That kiss last night—it was a slip, a crack in my walls. Her mouth on mine, rain soaking us, her hands pulling me in. I liked it too much, let it linger too long.
Now this. Her tools, smeared with blood. Not her blood, but I get the message. A warning I can’t ignore. I set the loupe down, picking up the stylus instead.
It’s light, perfectly balanced, the way she likes it. I roll it between my fingers, picturing her hunched over her ledger, tracing lies into truth.
I shove the box aside. The kid’s gone, the garage empty except for the hum of machinery.
I step to the window, looking out at the lot. Dust swirls in the wind, catching the sun in hazy streaks. My reflection stares back, hard-edged and tired.
Gia’s out there, pulling strings. The Red Siren, they call her—sharp, ruthless, always three steps ahead. This box is her move, her way of saying she sees me.
Sees us.
I turn back to the desk, grabbing the loupe again. The cracked lens catches the light, throwing jagged patterns on the wall.
Blood’s dry now, flaking off in tiny specks. I rub my thumb over it, smearing what’s left. She’s not dead, I tell myself again.
But she’s in play. Gia knows her, knows what she means to me. That’s the real threat here—not the blood, but the target it paints.
I drop the loupe into my pocket, keeping it close. The stylus and burnisher go too, tucked into my jacket. Evidence, maybe.
The loading bay feels smaller now, the air thick with grease and heat. I step outside, sun blasting my face, dust stinging my eyes.
The Bentley’s still up on the lift, abandoned mid-repair. The kid’s nowhere in sight, probably halfway across town by now, delivering my message. Good.
I climb into my car, slamming the door harder than I mean to. The engine growls to life, loud in the empty lot.
I peel out, tires kicking up gravel. Vegas sprawls ahead, a haze of neon and lies. Sylvara’s out there somewhere, and Gia’s closing in.
Thunder cracks again, closer this time. The sky’s turning ugly, clouds piling up fast. I grip the wheel tight, knuckles white.
Gia wants a war. She’s got one. I just need to find Sylvara before the next message lands.
Back in my apartment, I lock the door tight. Check the guns—loaded, safety on—then crack open the emergency kit in the closet.
I grab the burner phone, pacing to the window. The city blinks below, a sprawl of lights that never sleep. I dial, holding it to my ear.
It rings twice. “Yeah?” Her voice comes through, rough around the edges. She’s been at it too long again, probably bent over her workbench.
“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.
They’re not just tools. They’re her, and Gia’s got her scent now. I exhale smoke, watching it twist in the night air.
Dante’s words circle back. “Use yourself wisely.” I’ve been a weapon for years, aimed where he pointed.
Now I’m aiming myself. At Gia, at Rizzi, at the whole rotting mess. And Sylvara’s tangled up in it, whether I like it or not.
I stub the cigarette out, grinding it into the railing. The ember flares, then dies. Thunder rumbles again, faint but closer.
The city doesn’t care. It never does. Lights flicker on, oblivious to the war brewing under its skin.
I step inside, locking the balcony door. The apartment feels small, the walls pressing in. I check the guns again, just to be sure.
The hard drive sits in its hole, waiting. Those IDs, that cash—they’re my ticket if it all goes south. I don’t want to use them.
But I might have to. For her. For me. Loyalty’s a blade, and it’s cutting deeper every day.
I sit on the couch, boots still on. The burner phone stares back from the counter, silent now. I don’t call her again.
She’d hear it in my voice—the lie, the fear, the need to keep her safe. I can’t risk that yet.
The cigarette taste lingers, bitter on my tongue. I lean back, eyes on the ceiling, tracing cracks that weren’t there yesterday.
Gia’s out there, plotting her next move. That box was just the start. She’s testing me, seeing how far I’ll bend.
I won’t. Not for her. I’ll break this city before I let her touch Sylvara again.
Thunder rolls through, shaking the windows. I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Just the weight of her tools, and the fight ahead.