Chapter 10 – Vespera
The bayou doesn’t whisper tonight.
It waits.
Every branch, every root, every pocket of standing water holds its breath, tense and silent. Mud grips my boots with each step, thick and sucking, as if it wants to pin me in place and drag me into its depths.
I don’t let it. My muscles tense, pushing through the resistance, steady and deliberate.
I move.
The coordinates Tomas gave me weren’t precise, just enough to point me here, to this forgotten corner of the swamp. He said Alfeo sent someone to check this stretch of the bayou. Another scout. A dog sniffing for cracks in our defenses, looking for a way to bite.
I came to snap his nose clean off. To send a message back to Alfeo in blood.
The machete Tiziano gave me is tucked along my back its handle flush against my spine.
It presses warm through my shirt, a weight that steadies more than it burdens.
I feel him in it, Tiziano, his strength woven into the steel, a silent vow that I’m not alone out here.
It grounds me, keeps my pulse even as I hunt.
I crouch low behind a cluster of palmetto fronds, their sharp edges brushing my thighs. My eyes fix on the shack ahead, its shape barely distinct through the fog.
Rotting boards sag under their own weight. The caved-in roof tilts, threatening to collapse. No windows, just gaps where wood has split, revealing slivers of the dark inside.
But a man-shaped shadow paces within, framed in flashes between the cracks in the wall. His movements are restless, careless, like he thinks he owns this place.
No lights. No fire. Just the faint creak of floorboards under his weight.
But movement.
I watch. Still. My breath is low and shallow, barely stirring. The fog clings to my skin, damp and cool, but I don’t shiver.
My eyes don’t shake.
My hands don’t sweat.
I’m not prey.
Not anymore. Not the bartender’s girl, not a name to be crossed off Alfeo’s list. I’m something else now, something sharp and unforgiving, forged in the fire of Tiziano’s blood and my own defiance.
The grass parts around my thighs as I shift low to the ground, knees bent, knife sheathed and ready at my hip.
I circle downwind, boots pressing soundlessly into the wet soil, each step measured to avoid the snap of a twig or the splash of a puddle.
The fog peels back just enough to clear my view, like the bayou’s granting me passage.
The front of the shack is exposed. Rusted hinges hang loose, the door half off its frame. Slatted steps lead up, broken halfway through, jagged edges glistening with dew.
Then the door opens.
He steps out to piss. His silhouette is broad, careless, outlined against the faint gray of dawn.
His head is down. One hand sits on the doorframe to steady himself, while the other tugs at his zipper, fumbling in the dark.
No weapon visible. His rifle’s probably inside, propped against a wall, useless to him now.
Perfect.
One step. Two. My boots glide over the mud, silent, my body low and coiled like a spring.
I close the distance before he registers the movement
I grab a fistful of his hair, wrench his head back with a sharp yank. His scalp pulls tight under my grip, and he stiffens, caught off guard.
His hand jerks up, too slow, flailing for something he’ll never reach.
I draw the blade across his throat in one clean pull. The machete bites deep, steel parting flesh with a wet, final sound.
He gargles, blood spraying warm across my forearm, hot and slick, soaking into my sleeve. His knees hit the ground, a dull thud in the mud. Then his chest follows, collapsing forward. Then his face is pressed to the earth, swallowed by the swamp’s embrace.
Dead.
Fast.
No scream.
No warning.
No chance.
I crouch next to the body, my breath steady, my heart a calm drum in my chest. I press two fingers to his neck, just below the jaw, where the pulse should be.
Pointless. I know he’s gone. The blood pooling beneath him tells me enough, dark and spreading, mixing with the mud.
The steam from the open cut curls in the morning chill, rising like a ghost into the fog. It catches the faint light, a fleeting shimmer before it’s gone.
He thought this was Alfeo’s territory. Thought I was the bartender’s girl, just another warm body to break or move past, a name to scare and forget.
He thought wrong. Underestimated me, underestimated the steel at my back, the fire in my veins.
I wipe the blade across his shirt, the fabric rough under the steel, soaking up the blood in uneven streaks. I stand, my legs steady, my grip firm on the machete.
The fog begins to break apart under the rising sun, tendrils of mist unraveling to reveal the bayou’s raw edges. Trees loom taller now, their moss dripping like tears.
I slide the machete back into place, its weight settling against my spine, a familiar anchor. Tiziano’s gift, his trust, his violence made mine. I feel him in every step I take, his shadow woven into this moment, steadying me as I leave the body behind.
And I walk away from my first kill.
No panic. My pulse doesn’t race, my hands don’t tremble.
No guilt. There’s no room for it, not when survival demands blood, not when Alfeo’s dogs are circling closer.
Only focus. Sharp, clear, like the blade I wield, like the woman I’ve become.
The swamp watches as I move, its roots slick underfoot, its air thick with the hum of waking insects. The shack fades into the mist behind me, a rotting monument to what I’ve done. I don’t look back.
My boots carve a path through the mud, deliberate, unhurried. The phone in my pocket feels heavier than it should, a key to whatever Alfeo’s planning next. I’ll crack it open later, pull its secrets apart, but for now, I’m alive, and that’s enough.
The sun climbs higher, burning through the fog, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers across the ground. The bayou’s alive, breathing, its pulse matching mine as I leave its jaws behind.
I crouch again and roll his body.
His jacket squelches as I turn him over, the fabric soaked through with mud and blood, heavy under my hands.
He lands face-up in the swamp’s embrace, head tilted at an unnatural angle, mouth open like he had one more sentence that didn’t make it out.
His skin is pale, waxy, drained of life, the morning chill settling into him like a claim.
I search the inner pockets. My fingers move quick, precise, ignoring the damp chill of his clothes.
Nothing in the left. Just lint and the faint smell of tobacco clinging to the lining.
Inside the right, folded paper. Crumpled, damp, its edges curling from the swamp’s breath. Blood soaks the bottom edge, dark and sticky, smearing under my touch.
I open it carefully. The paper resists, clinging to itself, but I pry it apart without tearing.
Typed. Plain font. No name, no flourish.
Just two words.
Bar’s next.
No threat. Just intent, cold and sharp, like a blade pressed to my throat.
The page smells like gasoline and cheap cologne, a stench that cuts through the swamp’s rot. It’s Alfeo’s calling card, unmistakable, a taunt left for me to find.
He’s not playing games anymore.
He’s drawing maps, marking my bar, my home, as his next target. The words burn into me, not with fear but with fury, a fire that matches the one I’m about to set.
I stare down at the body. His eyes are still open. Cloudy, wide, frozen in shock.
Surprised.
Good. He didn’t see me coming, didn’t know what I’d become. Let him carry that into whatever’s next.
I leave them that way, unblinking, staring at the sky he’ll never see again.
I stand. Scan the clearing. The shack’s ruins offer enough broken lumber to build what I need, scattered beams and splintered planks half-sunk in the mud.
I drag a few fallen beams together, their wood soft and rotting but heavy enough to hold. Pile branches, snapping them free from low-hanging trees. Snap dry kindling from a nearby log, the crack sharp in the quiet, each piece brittle under my hands.
It takes minutes. My breath stays even, my movements methodical, driven by purpose.
The pyre stands uneven, but high enough to do the job. It looms in the clearing, a jagged throne for the message I’m sending.
I drag the body on top of it. His weight resists, limbs stiffening, but I pull harder. His boots catch on the edge of a root, scraping moss free. I yank again, muscles burning, until he flops over the center of the woodpile, splayed like an offering.
Then I kneel. The mud soaks my knees, cold and unyielding, but I don’t care.
I strike the match. The sulfur flares, sharp and acrid, cut through the swamp’s damp.
The blood helps. So does the oil from his coat, its sheen catching the flame like it was waiting for it.
The fire catches fast, a hungry crackle that spreads across the kindling, licking up the beams.
I step back. The heat pushes against my skin, warm at first, then searing, a wall I don’t cross.
I don’t watch him burn because I like it. The thought doesn’t thrill me, doesn’t twist something dark inside.
I watch him burn because it matters. Because fire makes a line in the sand that no one can ignore, a signal to Alfeo that his scouts don’t come back whole.
This is my war now. Not just Tiziano’s, not just Tomas’s. Mine.
My territory. This bar, this life, this ground I’ve fought to hold.
And I don’t leave threats breathing. Not anymore.
The fire crackles and climbs, loud in the morning quiet, its roar drowning out the faint buzz of insects. Flames twist higher, consuming the wood, the body, the paper I left tucked in his coat. The words “Bar’s next” burn with him, reduced to ash before they can reach me.
Ash rises, drifting into the lightening sky, gray flecks catching the first rays of dawn. The fog thins, peeling back to reveal the bayou’s raw edges, its trees standing like sentinels over my work.
When the blaze takes full and the body is no longer a shape but a shadow, blackened and indistinct, I turn.
And I walk away without looking back. My boots carve a steady path through the mud, each step deliberate, unhurried.
The swamp watches, its air heavy with the scent of smoke and blood.
The pyre’s heat lingers on my back, a reminder of what I’ve done, what I’m capable of now.
I feel the machete at my spine, Tiziano’s gift, its weight a constant, anchoring me to him even here, miles from the bar.
He’s part of this, part of the fire I’ve set, the line I’ve drawn.
My hand brushes the phone in my pocket, the one I took from the scout. It’s a lead, a thread to Alfeo’s plans, but I’ll unravel it later, back at the bar where the world feels solid. For now, the kill is enough, the fire enough, the message sent.
The bayou’s pulse hums underfoot, roots slick and treacherous, but I don’t falter. The trees loom taller as the sun climbs, their moss dripping like mourning veils, but I’m not mourning. I’m alive, sharp, forged anew in this moment.
Tiziano’s face flashes in my mind, blood-streaked from his own hunt, eyes fierce with the same resolve I feel now.
We’re bound by this, by the blood we spill, the wars we fight for each other.
It’s not soft, not safe, but it’s ours, a tether that pulls me back to him, to the bar, to the fight ahead.
The fog lifts fully, the swamp opening before me, its shadows retreating under the dawn’s light. I move faster now, my breath steady, my heart a drum that doesn’t waver.
Alfeo thinks he can mark my bar, send his dogs to sniff out weakness. He’s wrong. I’m not the woman he expects, not the prey he’s hunting.