Chapter 26 – Tiziano #2
“Bianca first,” the cold one says, final, the name twisting my gut like a knife. “She’ll want to see this herself.”
“They’re not close yet,” I whisper, my body coiled, muscles taut, ready to move. “Their confusion’s my window.”
A new voice cuts in, clipped, commanding. “Secure the scene. Nobody touches the body. Bianca’s ten minutes out.”
“That’s my cue,” I mutter, sliding deeper into the shadows, the black hoodie Vespera gave me pulled low over my brow, its weight like armor. My boots are silent on the slick pavement, every step careful, deliberate. One wrong sound, and the lie unravels.
I slip through the fence gap behind the dumpster, boots grazing concrete just enough to leave a faint mark, subtle, overlooked. My left hand brushes damp brick, steadying me; my right grips the alley key, its metal cold, a lifeline to the next moment.
“Around the block,” I tell myself, moving quickly, silently, through the side street where the fog pools thicker, swallowing me. I pass boarded windows, their wood splintered, blind, and the alley’s second entrance, its mouth empty, gaping.
Shouts flare again, closer now, voices sharp, confused. “He’s moving! I saw—” one yells, desperate, chasing nothing.
“No, man, that’s just the wind,” another snaps, firm. “The body’s cold.”
“Cold and gone,” I murmur, a grim smile tugging my lips, my breath shallow, controlled. “You’re chasing a ghost.”
I duck low, heart pounding in my throat, fog erasing my outline as I move. The voices fade, lost in the city’s haze. At the bar’s back door, Vespera waits, her silhouette sharp against the dim glow, her gray eyes cutting through the blood and lies, seeing only me.
“You’re here,” I say, my chest loosening, her presence pulling me back from the edge.
“Always,” she replies, voice low, fierce, her gaze anchoring me.
Blood streaks my hands, my neck, some real, most fake, drying in the chill. My hands shake as I press them to my thighs, not from fear, but from the weight of her, of us, of what we’ve done. She lifts a cloth, wiping my face, her touch rough, practical, scraping away the blood.
“Anyone see you?” she asks, voice sharp, demanding truth.
“Just heard,” I say, meeting her eyes, my voice steady. “No one saw.”
She nods, grabbing my wrist, her fingers firm, feeling my pulse, checking I’m still here. “You’re alive,” she says, softer, a crack in her steel mask.
“Barely,” I reply, a half-truth, my body heavy, my soul heavier, but still hers.
“Good,” she says, final, her strength burning through me.
Her hand lingers on mine, warm, real, her thumb pressing my knuckle, a silent vow. I squeeze back, hard, promising what I can’t say.
“We’re not done,” I say, my voice low, her touch keeping me whole.
“Not tonight,” she replies, her eyes fierce, “not ever.”
Inside, the bar is a ghost town, dim, shuttered, its tables empty, neon dark, the air thick with stale beer and dust. We cross to the storeroom, steps soft, the floor creaking under us. Tomas waits, shotgun over one shoulder, the burner phone in pieces on the table, useless now.
“You’ve got an hour,” he says, voice steady, eyes flicking between us, knowing too much.
“Not long,” Vespera says, her gray eyes calculating, weighing the risk.
“Won’t need it,” I say, certain, my focus narrowing to the next step, to vanishing clean.
Tomas studies me, his expression serious. “They’ll ID the body eventually. Dental. Prints.”
“No teeth,” I say, voice flat, cold, the truth of my work laid bare. “No fingers.”
Tomas exhales sharply, respect or disgust, I can’t tell. “Savage.”
“Necessary,” I say, no apology, just the cost of freedom, of her.
Vespera doesn’t flinch, her presence unyielding, a rock I lean into. She knows the cost, the seconds, the days, the chance to breathe free.
“You’re worth it,” I say, my eyes on her, her strength my reason for every cut, every lie.
“Damn right,” she replies, her voice steady, a spark in her gaze.
Sirens scream down the next block, their wail cutting through the fog, red lights flashing, painting the mist bloody.
Bianca’s here, her arrival a threat, the final test of our lie.
I press into the brick, watching her blonde braid swing as she steps into the scene, her boots polished, her expression cold, commanding.
“She thinks she’s won,” I whisper, my breath shallow, watching her believe. “She thinks I’m gone.”
“Let her,” Vespera’s voice from earlier echoes in my mind, sharp, certain.
Bianca kneels by the body, slow, deliberate, pulling the collar back, exposing the blood, our lie. Her lips press into a line, a flicker of doubt—or triumph—crossing her face, gone fast.
“Believe it,” I mutter, my heart pounding, hands clenched, willing her to take the bait. “Let us live.”
“Bag it,” she orders, voice sharp, cutting through the sirens. “Don’t broadcast. We control the narrative.”
“Yes,” I breathe, hope flaring, small but fierce, as they load the body, their steps heavy, voices muted.
The van pulls away, its lights swallowed by fog, the alley emptying, the lie taking root. Back at the bar, the lights stay off, the room a tomb for the man I was. Vespera pours two shots, amber glinting in the dim, a farewell we don’t drink, the act enough.
“We’re ghosts now,” I say, voice raw, feeling the weight of our new lives.
“No,” she says, her hand on my shoulder, fierce, grounding. “We’re smoke.”
“Smoke,” I repeat, the word alive, free, a promise I’ll keep.
We slip through, we endure, we burn.
The alley forgets us, its fog closing over the blood, the lie, erasing us. The city prepares to bury a man still breathing, a man who’s hers, who’s smoke, who’s alive, for now, for her, for us.