Chapter 21 – Vespera
Blood stains my palms.
I scrub harder.
The metal basin hisses with pink water, circling the drain like it's trying to forget what it touched.
My nails scrape my skin. I keep going.
“Need a new towel,” Tomas had said earlier. But he didn’t bring one.
Didn’t move from that crate stack.
Too still.
Too quiet.
Now I know why.
Behind me, Tiziano is barking at Tomas’s tech guys—clear the front, check the perimeter, shift the bodies out of view before the cops get nosy.
But my gut twists.
Not because of the blood.
Because of Tomas.
I shut the water off and wipe my hands on my jeans. They smear red across my thighs.
I turn.
He’s still there, half-shadowed, leaning like this is just another Tuesday and we’re not dripping in the aftermath of a street war.
“Out with it,” I say.
He steps forward, hesitation in every line of his body. “Ves….”
My eyes narrow.
“You’ve got sixty seconds. Make it worth the breath.”
He swallows. His throat moves. He doesn’t blink.
“I gave Bianca intel.”
He keeps going. “Not everything. Just…just enough. To keep her off your back. I thought—” He steps forward “—I thought I was protecting you.”
The swing of the bulb catches my blade on the shelf.
Its edge flashes.
I stare at him. Hard.
“You thought betrayal was protection?”
His voice cracks. “She said if I didn’t feed her something, she’d make a move. I picked what was harmless—old routes, empty shipments, decoys.”
“You let her into my world.”
“No—”
“You put her eyes on my bar.”
“I kept her off your throat, Ves—”
“Bullshit.”
The word slices sharper than any knife.
I walk toward him, slowly.
He doesn’t back up.
“I gave her nothing she didn’t already have,” he says. “But if I didn’t pretend to play along, she would’ve taken more. She’s not just watching you. She’s circling Tiziano. You think she doesn’t know about the coup?”
I stop two feet from him.
“You had a choice. And you chose her.”
“I chose to keep you alive.”
“And when was I gonna find out? After she burned us from the inside out?”
His face hardens. “You think I’d let that happen?”
I don’t answer.
My breathing is loud in my ears.
Tomas. The guy who’s been behind the bar since I inherited the place. Who stocked the shelves. Who fixed the jukebox. Who found the good tequila when we couldn’t afford shit.
I trusted him.
And he cracked.
I reach for the knife.
He sees it.
“You gonna stab me?” he asks, voice low.
“I’m thinking about it.”
His lips part. “Then do it.”
I don’t.
I lower the blade an inch, but don’t put it down.
“You get one chance, Tomas. One.”
He nods slowly.
“You’re gonna tell me everything you gave her. Names. Times. Every lie. Every thread. And then you’re gonna help me gut it from the root.”
He nods again.
“And if I think for one second you’re still feeding her—”
“I’m not.”
“I said if.”
I step closer. Our chests almost touch.
My voice is steel.
“If I catch even the scent of betrayal again, I won’t hesitate. You’ll die in this room.”
He nods once more. “Understood.”
I stare at him for a beat longer.
Then, I finally step back.
He breathes. Just once. Deeply. Like he’d been holding it the whole time.
“Start talking,” I say.
He does.
The moment his confession ends, my body moves.
I don’t think. I react.
I slam him into the crate wall. Wood splinters. Bottles rattle.
His head snaps back. His breath leaves in a grunt.
I step in. My hand grips the front of his shirt. I yank him forward, then shove him back again. Harder. The metal latch of a crate digs into his spine.
“You lied to me,” I hiss. “You watched me bleed. Watched him bleed. And you chose her.”
He doesn’t fight back.
His hands stay loose at his sides.
I cock my arm and swing, fist to jaw.
His head whips sideways. Blood blossoms at the corner of his mouth.
He groans but stays on his feet.
I hit him again. Harder.
This time, he stumbles, one foot slipping on the worn tile. But he doesn’t fall.
“You had every chance to come clean,” I say, voice rising. “You stood beside me. Behind the bar. Behind me—and every time you said you had my back, you had a fucking knife pressed against it.”
Still, no defense. No excuses.
Just blood running down his chin, his breathing ragged.
I can’t stop.
My knuckles crack into his ribs.
He folds forward slightly, but doesn’t raise a hand.
“You don’t even try to defend yourself?” I shout.
“No,” he gasps.
I shove him again.
His back hits the crate stack.
The whole wall shudders.
“You think taking the hits makes you loyal?” I growl.
“No.” His voice is thick. “I think not fighting you is the least I can do.”
My chest heaves.
My fingers curl tighter into his shirt. I twist it.
I want to punch him again.
I want to break every part of him that made this choice.
But I don’t.
I just press in close enough that my forehead nearly touches his.
“You should be dead for what you did.”
“I know.”
“I should kill you.”
“Then do it.”
I freeze.
The words don’t come out like a dare.
They don’t shake.
They don’t beg.
They just land. Heavy. Flat. Like he’s already accepted it.
His voice is wrecked, face swelling, one eye starting to puff shut.
“But I never stopped protecting you,” he continues. “Not once. Even when I lied.”
“You think that makes it better?” I ask, whispering now, all my rage curling inward.
“No. But it’s true.”
I breathe hard.
Hands shaking.
Blood coats my knuckles.
Sweat stings my eyes.
I stare at him.
His mouth barely opens, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“I gave her scraps. Nothing that would hurt you. I didn’t tell her about Tiziano. Didn’t tell her about the storage run. Or the bayou hit. Or the ledger movements. I swear.”
“And the map?” I ask coldly. “You think she didn’t get it because she just forgot how to dig?”
“I didn’t send her anything new. Not since the coup started shifting.”
He coughs, and blood hits his lip.
I shove him once more, but weaker this time.
“You think that earns you points?”
“No.”
My hands loosen.
I step back.
Let him go.
He slides slowly down the crates. Legs fold. His body makes a thud as it hits the floor.
His back rests against the wood. His head leans to the side. One hand holds his ribs.
His voice comes low, pained. “But I’m still yours to command. Even if I have to bleed for it.”
I stand over him, pulse racing.
Breathing like I just ran miles.
I stare down at the man who made drinks for my mother. Who fixed the wiring when the lights shorted in the middle of a storm. Who handed me a blade without blinking when Alfeo made his first move.
The betrayal tastes foul.
But under it…is grief.
And worse—under that…there’s still loyalty.
Still a piece of him that means it.
I crouch.
Not close. Not touching.
But near enough to look him dead in the eye.
“You want to fix this?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re going to feed her lies. From now on, everything she hears goes through us.”
He nods slowly.
“You’re going to give her the map we want her to see. The bodies we want her to chase. You’ll string her along until she’s neck-deep in our trap.”
“Yes.”
“And if I even think you’ve turned again—”
“You won’t need to kill me,” he says. “Because I’ll already be dead.”
I stare at him for another long second.
Then I push off my knees and rise.
I walk to the sink. Rinse my hands again. Red swirls down the drain like déjà vu.
Behind me, he stays as if rooted to the ground.
Just breathes.
Quiet. Broken.
Still alive.
Tomas doesn’t beg.
He just stays there. On the ground. Waiting for me to believe him again.
I don’t yet.
But I don’t kill him either.
And that?
That’s the only mercy he’s getting.
He leans his head back against the crates. His lip is swollen, and his cheek is split, with blood soaking the collar of his shirt.
I wipe the last smear of red from my wrist and toss the towel into the bin.
“Prove it,” I say.
He nods, eyes clear despite the bruises.
“I will.”