Chapter 4 – Vespera
I drag the last empty keg onto the rusted metal platform at the back entrance, each barrel’s weight jolting through my arms. Beneath the single overhead floodlight, beads of condensation glint on the curved steel like dew on a grave.
My shirt clings to my skin, soaked through with sweat and something else I can’t name—an ache that’s more hunger than exhaustion.
I’ve signed the papers—a deal inked in risk and promise. The books are balanced; the permit’s paid; the shipment is mine.
I squeeze the note in my pocket until the paper’s fibers betray it with a sharp tear.
Alfeo’s message reads SELL OR ROT, scrawled in his jagged hand.
My cheek burns with the memory of every threat he’s leveled—empty promises given weight by every man he’s sent after me. I ball what’s left of the note into my palm, crush it further, and let the scraps fall into a puddle of stained water at my feet.
Rain drips steadily through gaps in the corrugated roof, forming thin curtains of water that patter against crates and discarded pallets.
The yard smells of spilled beer, damp cardboard, and rot—an interior of decay framed by the purple glow of the bar’s neon sign.
Shadows cling to overturned trash bins, and a half-open dumpster sits against the brick wall, its lid bowed and unmoored.
I press my back against the cold cinderblock, muscles coiling.
Every instinct I’ve honed—sparring sessions under the murky streetlamps, late-night runs through dark alleys—buzzes beneath my skin.
This spot should have been clear. The bouncer at the side door knows better than to let anyone slip into my supply corridor.
Yet here, among the shadows and soggy debris, someone waits.
A scraping noise breaks the damp hush. Metallic and deliberate—too measured for the wind.
My heart seizes. I pivot without thought, feet sliding on the slick concrete, and spot movement behind the stack of pallets by the dumpster.
Rainwater trickles between the slats, pools by a discarded broom, and there, crouched, a figure shifts in the gloom.
His jacket hangs open, soaked, revealing the blade gleaming in the yellow cast of the floodlight.
He lunges, silence giving way to violence.
He’s fast—his knife a flash of steel—but I’m faster.
I slip off the platform, letting my boots thump solidly against the ground.
I reach forward and drive my shoulder into his midsection, the impact stealing his breath and sending him stumbling backward.
He rights himself, blade arcing in a sloppy crescent.
I step inside his swing and snatch his wrist, bone pressing against bone, twisting until the knife skitters across the concrete.
It lands with a hollow ring, echoing against the brick walls.
The rain’s patter and the buzz of the neon sign swell in the sudden quiet.
He backs away, clutching his side where I’ve hit him.
Pain flares in his eyes. I draw my own blade—balanced, cold, real—and advance.
The barrel of my knife rests at his throat.
Even in his shock, he tries to match my gaze, but there’s no fire there, only the bewildered panic of a man who miscalculated his mark.
“Leave,” I say, my voice low, each syllable cutting sharper than my steel.
His lips part, perhaps to protest, but no sound comes before my blade drives home. The tip slices through his jacket, then through flesh. A wet hiss escapes him. His knees buckle, and the platform rattles as he crumples into the shallow puddle at my feet.
I kick the knife out of his loosening grip, twist the blade free of his leg, and step back—no mercy in my posture, no hesitation in my breathing.
His skin blossoms red, water swirling pink around him. I bend, grab the soaked edge of his jacket, and thumb through the pockets. A burner phone, a wad of soggy bills, a matchbook from Roy’s up front. Tokens of whoever sent him, scrambling for scraps of intel.
Footsteps thunder on the wooden stairs inside the bar—Roy finishing his nightly rounds. I don’t wait for him to spot me; I slip through the staff door before the lock can click.
The taste of iron lingers on my tongue. Adrenaline hammers a rhythm through my veins. My heart won’t settle until I’ve left every trace of Alfeo’s men in that rain-choked yard.
Inside, the bar is darker than I expected—lights down and most patrons gone. I cross to the mop bucket by the ice machine, wring out a rag, and head back outside. The attack happened less than a minute ago, but already, the world seems to demand I clean up; chaos won’t endure under my watch.
I crouch by the dying man, who lies on his side, wet hair plastered to his forehead.
His shallow breaths fog in the chill night air.
I hold the rag to his wound, squeezing until the flow slows, but not stopping entirely.
Enough that he thinks he might survive—enough that Alfeo has to send more.
I crush the rag in my fist and toss it into the dumpster.
Then, I stand, boots slipping on the ledge, and glance back through the bar’s windows.
Neon letters flicker: SPIRITS, the sign’s last “S” sputtering out like breath leaving someone’s lungs. Inside, Roy leans against the back wall, amber eyes widening at the sight of my silhouette. He doesn’t call out. He never does. He trusts me to handle my own storms.
I slip in without a word, the cold air exchanging for the bar’s warmth and the low hum of the refrigerator. The mop left in my hand turns into a makeshift staff. Patrons crane their necks, watching as I cross the floor. Glasses clink. Vinyl from the record player crackles on.
At the corner where I stash my coat, I pause and examine the edge of my blade.
Raindrops cling to the steel’s finish like tears.
I flick water from the tip and slip it into its leather sheath.
My ribs still sting where a stray piece of scrap wood bit me earlier, but the ache is welcome—proof I’m alive.
Roy sidles up next to me. He’s holding my nightly tea—a stiff shot of rye with a splash of bitters. He nods once, wordlessly offering. I take it down it in a smooth burn that courses through my chest, setting each muscle alight.
“Alfeo’s not done,” I say, not a question. More a statement of fact.
Roy’s lips turn down. “He only backs off when he’s sure you’re broken.”
I set the empty glass on the shelf. My reflection stares back—eyes sharp, shoulder still tensing under my jacket. “Then he’ll have to try harder.”
He gives me a look that says we both know what that means. I head to the back, feeling the weight of every footstep, muscles unclenching only at the threshold. The attack on the loading dock wasn’t random. It was a test—one I passed, but not without marking myself.
Inside the storeroom, I drop the tea tumbler on the concrete and lean against a stack of empty crates. Rain drips from my hair, and I peel my soaked jacket off, wrinkles of mud smudged down the front. I roll the sleeves of my shirt past my elbows, revealing old scars and new ones that sting.
I run my thumbs over the blade accident. It’s shallow, but unclean. I press a handful of antiseptic from the first-aid kit onto a paper towel, treat the cut with methodical precision. Pain radiates in slow waves. Good. Keeps me grounded.
I catch the faint haze of jasmine incense drifting from the bar’s altar—my ritual to clear my mind.
When I step back into the bar’s glow, I’m calm. The remnants of rain fall from my hair like sparks. Patrons resume their chatter. Glasses rise in soft half-toasts. Roy watches from behind the register, hands poised, ready in case trouble slips in again. But it won’t. Not while I’m here.
Under the neon halo, I feel something shift.
The yard outside will be claimed by runoff, litter, and the echo of what happened.
But the bar—this was always my domain. I smooth my shirt, wipe my blade clean with a cloth, and slip it back into its sheath.
Tonight, there was an attack on foreign ground. Tomorrow, the front door will hold.
I shake off the last of the cold and head for the stairs.
The night’s far from over, and Alfeo’s threats are churning in my blood.
But whatever he sends next, he’ll find a woman who refuses to cower, who refuses to break.
The bayou may breed monsters, but I am its claw, and the next time he crosses my threshold, he’ll wish he’d never sent a single scout.
I push through the dining area, back toward the glow of the streetlamp and the promise of another bottle waiting under the counter. The floodlight outside still glares down, but now, I stand in its beam. My silhouette is unblinking, ready for whatever comes next.
The alley’s still thick with fog. It hasn’t moved, just sits heavy, like it’s waiting for something worse to happen.
I’m back outside. The body’s right where I left it, slumped against the dumpster. There’s more blood now—spreading out beneath him—but he’s breathing.
Good.
Let him drag himself back to wherever he came from. Let him explain what went wrong. Let him tell them I didn’t panic or chicken out.
I light another cigarette and take a drag. My ribs ache where the cut runs shallow and sore. I haven’t changed clothes, haven’t cleaned the blood off my hand. Let them see it.
The night feels colder than it should, but not because of the temperature. It’s because of what’s coming.
I catch movement at the mouth of the alley, a shadow first. Tall. Steady.
Tiziano.
He doesn’t speak when he steps into view. Doesn’t make a show of it. He just walks in like he was always meant to be here. Like the fog knew to make space for him.
His steps aren’t loud, but they’re sure. Everything he does is deliberate. His coat swings at his sides as he moves. The streetlight above catches just enough to sharpen the lines of his face—his jaw, his shoulders, that collar turned up like it’s permanent.
His eyes move.
First, to the blood.
Then, to the body.
Then, to me.
“You’re marked,” he says.
His voice is lower than usual, rougher.
“Alfeo doesn’t bluff.” I take a drag, hold it. “Neither do I.”
He glances back at the man on the ground. “You handled it.”
“I didn’t ask for permission.”
He steps in closer—not pushing, not challenging.
Just getting within range.
I feel the heat coming off him before he even reaches me.
“I’m not here to stop you,” he says. “I’m here to tell you what’s next.”
“I’m not asleep,” I say. “Don’t need the bedtime story.”
He gives me a look. It’s not annoyed. It’s something heavier. He’s reading me like he’s trying to decide how much he’s allowed to admit.
The corner of his mouth moves, not quite a smile.
There’s something under it.
Tension.
Maybe guilt. Maybe respect. Maybe both.
“He’ll escalate,” Tiziano says. “This wasn’t a message. It was a test.”
I nod at the body. “He failed.”
“He won’t send another pawn next time.”
“Then he can send someone with better aim.”
Tiziano steps in again. My back is already to the wall. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close now. He’s in my space.
“You need someone watching your back,” he says.
“What I need is a clean floor and people who don’t lie.”
His eyes narrow. “You think I lied?”
“I think you left out details.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“That’s your excuse?”
He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t argue.
But I feel it.
Not guilt.
Conviction.
“Vespera,” he says, quieter, “if you want clean, you picked the wrong place to live.”
“I’ve dealt with worse messes.”
“Then keep doing what you’re doing.”
The way he says it—it lands. Not like advice, but like a choice. Like he’s handing me a weapon instead of offering help.
I drop the cigarette. It hisses when it hits the puddle near the body.
Blood’s creeping toward it.
“You gonna clean this up?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
He’s not that kind of man.
He keeps watching me. I keep watching him.
For a second, I think about walking away. Going inside. Ending the conversation.
I don’t.
He doesn’t either.
His eyes drop, just briefly, to the side of my shirt. The spot where the makeshift bandage covers the slice on my ribs.
“You’re still bleeding,” he says.
I snort. “You think I missed that?”
“You should clean it again.”
“I did already.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol.”
He nods, like that’s good enough.
The quiet between us stretches.
Then, I say, “Why are you really here?”
He hesitates. “I wanted to see how bad it was.”
“You thought I’d be dead?”
“No. I thought you’d be mad.”
“You guessed right.”
He steps back a little, gives me space.
Then, he moves to the body. Crouches. Lifts the guy’s jacket sleeve.
There’s a tattoo on the inside of the arm, a dog skull with three claw marks running through it.
“He’s with the pack,” Tiziano says.
“Alfeo?”
He nods. “Low-level. Meant to take a hit.”
“Then why send him?”
“To see what you’d do. If you’d freeze.”
“I didn’t.”
“I noticed.”
He stands and pulls a handkerchief from his coat, wiping his hands like the blood bothers him.
“I’ll send someone to take care of this,” he says.
“I thought you said I needed backup.”
“This is it.”
I laugh. It’s short, dry. “You think backup means cleanup?”
“I think it means you focus on what matters.”
“And what matters?”
He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to.
He wants me closer.
In the system. On his ledgers. On his side.
“You think if you mop the floor, I’ll owe you.”
“I think the debt’s already there.”
I shake my head. “You’re full of yourself.”
“You’re still bleeding.”
There’s another pause, tight.
Then, without warning, he reaches out and lifts the edge of my shirt. Just enough to see the tape job underneath.
His fingers brush my side—not gentle, but not rough either.
I freeze. Not from fear, but from the heat of it. From the fact that he just did it.
“You patched it yourself?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“It’s not straight.”
“You offering to fix it?”
He looks up. Then, he lets the shirt fall. “You wouldn’t let me.”
“You’re right.”
He steps back again. Not giving up—just resetting.
I pull the cigarette pack from my pocket and light a new one.
My hands are steady now.
“You gonna keep showing up like this?” I ask.
“Only when I have to.”
“For what?”
“To make sure you stay alive.”
“That’s not your job.”
“It is now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in this. And so are you.”
His voice is even. No angle. No drama.
Just truth.
I glance down at the body again.
Then, I look back at him.
He’s either here to shield me or to make sure I can’t walk away.
I haven’t figured out which.
He turns toward the door, and fog swallows him as he steps into it.
He doesn’t say goodbye.
And I follow him inside.