Chapter 2 – Vespera
The cigarette’s almost done, mostly ash now. I sit on an upside-down crate, back pressed to a stack of liquor boxes that sweat in the heat. One bare bulb buzzes above me, dull and yellow. The whole room smells like stale booze and warm glass.
The ledger’s in front of me. Still closed. Still sitting there, as if it knows it won.
I take another drag and blow the smoke toward the ceiling. It curls up, slow and aimless.
I told myself I wouldn’t open it.
But I do.
The cover flips back without resistance. The pages are smooth and thick, too clean on the surface. But the contents? Dirty. Real dirty. The numbers hit hard—fake corporations, laundered cash, paid-off cops, loops meant to burn out and leave nothing behind.
It’s not bleeding, but it may as well be. The damage is all over it.
This bar used to be the one place in this city that still felt clean. Not perfect, but mine.
Now, it’s been dragged into this, too.
Tiziano didn’t leave information; he left a leash, and I don’t take orders.
I run my thumb along the page. The edge bites back, sharp enough to split the skin under my nail.
Good. The sting helps me focus.
I lean back and close my eyes for a second. Jazz trickles in from the other side of the wall. Brass, slow and off-key. Probably something Roy put on to calm the late crowd. In here, though, it sounds distant. Like even the music doesn’t want to be near what this place has become.
I grind the cigarette out under my boot.
This isn’t a job offer. It’s a trap. And Tiziano knew I’d take the bait, knew I’d read the damn book. He walked out expecting it.
Fine.
Let’s see what happens next.
The door slams open, no knock.
Just the kind of noise that makes your ears ring.
Alfeo LaCroix strides in as if he owns the place. He carries the scent of the swamp and old blood. A machete dangles from his right hand, already drawn. He’s prepared. His eyes possess a flat, yellow-brown hue—cold, empty, and dangerous.
“Sell or bleed,” he says.
He swings the blade, hard.
It sinks into the crate nearest me. Glass inside explodes. Rum spills out fast—sharp and thick.
My heart is rock-solid, with no wavering.
He takes two steps closer, and his boots crunch on the floor.
“Your bar’s already falling apart,” he says. “Might as well get something for it before it caves in.”
He towers over me, waiting for me to fold.
I flick ash in the direction of the blade.
“You always show up like this, Alfeo? Or just when you feel small?”
He grins widely. It’s all teeth, with nothing behind it.
He’s in the same coat he wore when he knifed that judge, the same scar on his temple. Still pretending the city’s afraid of him.
I’m not.
“You’ve got a good face,” he says. “But you’re not untouchable.” He crouches, rests a hand on the machete’s handle as he makes a point. “Be smart.”
I stand—not fast, not slow.
Just steady.
Boot scrapes the broken glass. My shoulders square.
He stays crouched, watching me. That smile’s still on his face, but I see the shift in his grip. He expected fear. Expected me to back down.
Too bad.
“If Tiziano sent you,” I say, “he’s even dumber than I thought.”
Alfeo laughs. It's harsh, ugly—the kind of sound that makes people lock their doors.
“I don’t do favors,” he says. “I do what pays.”
I step closer. The handle of the blade is right at my chest.
“You ever pull that thing on me again,” I say, voice flat, “you better make sure I don’t get back up.”
He rises slowly, like he’s deciding whether to make another move.
But he doesn’t.
He just looks at me.
I don’t look away.
He blinks first.
He looks at the blade, makes a move to touch it, but then he hesitates, chuckling.
Then, he turns and walks out.
No threats. No smart-ass lines.
Like he thinks the fight’s over.
He’s wrong.
Next time, I won’t let him walk away.
Alfeo’s a loaded gun with no safety.
And I’m done waiting for him to fire.
The door shuts behind Alfeo. The sound is too loud, too final.
Then—nothing.
Not calm. Not relief. Just a silence that feels like it’s pressing in. All the tension, all the anger I didn’t use, just sits there. Nowhere to go. It thickens around me like smoke that won’t clear.
I don’t move at first.
Then, I drag the crate back into place, sit down, and light another cigarette.
My hands are steady now.
The smoke tastes bitter, but not from the cigarette. It’s the aftertaste of holding everything in. That tight, sharp feeling that comes after you talk yourself down. The kind of control that doesn’t feel clean, just necessary.
I open the drawer.
Inside, wrapped in an old scarf the color of a storm, is my tarot deck. The corners are soft from years of use. The edges are worn from sweat, time, and too many nights like this. They still smell like Sylvie’s oils—cedar, rose, sea salt, and burnt thyme. Memory, all of it.
I haven’t touched them since last night.
Didn’t need to.
But now, I do.
I need something clearer than the bullshit Alfeo brought in.
I shuffle the cards. Once. Then again. My thumb glides along the edge with a gentle flick.
One card.
The Emperor. Reversed.
I hold it up and look at it.
A broken throne. Torn robes. A crown tilted as if about to fall off. The man on the card still tries to appear in control, but you can see the cracks. His face looks more worn than wise. The whole image feels like rot wearing armor.
Figures.
I stare at that fractured throne—and at the latch on the back door.
A broken ruler means fractured defenses.
I rise, cross to the storeroom, and double-check the deadbolt. Then, I reset the alarm code on the keypad—no more surprises from below.
“Alfeo wants to take over,” I say out loud. “Tiziano wants to pull the strings.”
I slap the edge of the card against the ledger—hard. It makes a sharp sound on the wood.
“They both want something—this bar, my name, control.”
The thought makes my skin itch.
“They want me quiet. They want me in line.”
I hit the card against the table again. The corner folds. I don’t care.
“They’re not getting it.”
I grind the cigarette out on the floor, next to the ashes of the one before. The smoke curls up and away like it’s trying to get out of here.
It can’t.
Neither can they.
I reach for the machete.
The blade pulls out of the crate with a sound like breaking ribs. Wood cracks. The nails screech. It comes loose with bits of cork and glass still stuck to it.
It’s heavier than it looks.
Or maybe I’m just exhausted.
I run a finger along the flat side of the blade. There’s a gouge near the grip, a dent. Something from a fight I wasn’t in.
Even steel holds onto what it’s been through.
That’s fine.
I lift the ledger with my other hand. It doesn’t shift now. The pages stay closed, the binding tight. Like it knows it’s about to be locked away.
I walk to the back corner. The padlocked steel crate’s hidden behind some old inventory and a stack of expensive bourbon I never bother selling. I move the bottles, pull the false panel aside.
The ledger goes in.
I close the lid and snap the lock.
For extra safety, I haul that crate down the narrow stairwell into the basement’s back corner. No one ever thinks to look there.
That’s where it belongs—not out on the desk, not near the cards, and not near me.
The room’s quieter now. Not safe. Just more focused.
There are two men trying to move in on my life.
One’s polished, the other violent. One plays chess, the other plays with blades.
But this place?
This is mine.
They don’t get to mark it and pretend it’s theirs.
I carry the machete to the counter and set it down next to the tarot card, the Emperor, still upside down.
I take the scarf, smooth the edge over the deck, and wrap it tightly.
Not superstition.
Discipline.
Because if I don’t do things with purpose, someone else will decide what happens for me.
Thunder rumbles outside, closer. The storm’s crawling in from the edge of the city. The glass on the windows fogs up, drops running down like sweat. The walls feel damp.
It’s almost here.
They’re almost here.
But I’m not caught off guard anymore.
I run my hand along the blade one last time. The steel vibrates under my touch, like it remembers how to hurt.
It might get the chance.