Veil of Ashes

Chapter 6- Cage the Monster

The next morning, the mirror didn’t recognise me.

Eyes rimmed in grey, jaw tight from grinding in sleep if you could call two hours of hypervigilant nightmares to sleep. I moved through my safehouse like a ghost, every nerve wired from the night before.

Camila's name had been on the ledger.

Three years in the system she was bought, traded, and marked unaccounted.

I could’ve vomited. Instead, I made coffee.

By 10 a.m., I was back at the club in Brooklyn, wearing a silk tank, red lipstick, and the sharp-edged persona of Isabel Santana the woman who traffickers saw as either bait or threat. Sometimes both.

The club was quiet, but I wasn’t alone.

Luca sat in the office, feet kicked up, watching surveillance feeds from the docks.

“Early,” he said, glancing up.

“So are you.”

He clicked the monitor off and leaned back. “Couldn’t sleep. I have… responsibilities tonight. Heavy ones.”

I slid into the chair across from him. “You mean the transfer?”

His eyes snapped to mine.

Careful, Isabel.

I shrugged. “Milo runs his mouth, said you were shipping out a new product through the Tampa line, figured it wasn’t soybeans.”

He stared at me a second too long, then nodded, slowly.

“You’re not stupid, are you?” he said. “Most women in this business don’t last a week without crying to someone, you? You walk in like you’ve already survived hell.”

I matched his tone. “I have.”

A flicker of something in his eyes, recognition, maybe or warning.

He got up, crossed to the wet bar, and poured himself a neat bourbon. He didn’t offer me one. That was its kind of message.

“I want you with me tonight,” he said. “Downtown not the club, the warehouse.”

“Why?”

He downed the bourbon in one gulp, and set the glass down hard.

“Because I want to see if you belong here… or if I’ll have to bury you before sunrise.”

8:43 p.m. Staten Island Warehouse District

It stank of saltwater and ammonia. One long building with high ceilings and iron beams, lit by flickering floodlights that cast the shadows longer than the men who made them.

Luca’s crew was already inside Milo, Armin, and two new ones I didn’t recognise. One of them looked ex-military. The other had the kind of face you don’t forget, even if you want to long scar down the jaw, and dead eyes.

Luca leaned in close as we entered.

“You see the guy on the left? His name’s Malco. He’s one of ours, but he’s twitchy. Don’t surprise him, or he’ll put a bullet in your throat.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome.”

“No one’s welcome here. We’re all monsters in this place. You just get to decide what kind.”

I didn’t respond, I couldn’t. Because behind Malco, I saw the shipment.

Four girls ages twelve to maybe twenty. Bound, gagged, medicated, and alive. Barely.

And next to them, a duffel bag filled with passports. Documents. Names.

I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, even as my insides screamed.

Luca turned to me. “You said you had experience in Miami, right? I want you to handle the intake. Photos, measurements, and prep for transport.”

“You want me to treat them like inventory?”

He stepped in close, so close I could smell the bourbon and gunpowder on him.

“I want to see what you’re made of.”

I met his stare. Let the silence stretch like a wire between us.

Then I nodded. “Fine, but if I do this, I get names. Suppliers. Buyers. No more cage games.”

He smiled. It wasn’t kind. “You think you’re ready for that?”

“I’m ready for anything.”

Another lie. But it worked.

He handed me a clipboard and turned away.

I stepped into the cage.

I spent the rest of my shift weaving through the club like smoke silent, present, but untouchable. Luca vanished into the VIP suite, leaving a trail of paranoia in his wake. Every time I caught a glimpse of one of his men watching me, my mind ran back through everything I’d said, every glance I’d given, every damn heartbeat.

But I didn’t falter. Couldn’t.

Not with Camila whispering in my ear from somewhere in the dark.

Outside, the night slapped me with cold. I lit a cigarette I didn’t want and leaned against the brick alley wall beside the club. Smoke curled from my lips, but my hands were steady. Still. Even when I wanted to punch the wall and scream.

“You handled yourself well in there,” a voice murmured behind me.

I turned.

Agent Delgado stepped from the shadows. Black coat, black gloves, his badge tucked out of sight. He didn’t look like the FBI he looked like the kind of man who buried bodies for a living.

“You shouldn't be here,” I muttered.

“I’m not,” he said, casual. “Just checking the perimeter.”

I took another drag. “You mean checking me.”

Delgado’s eyes never blinked. “You’re deep in now, Reyes. That was Luca Moretti tonight. That wasn’t just a test. That was a warning.”

“I know.”

He waited like he expected me to break. I didn’t.

But I said something I hadn’t said out loud in years.

“Camila was fourteen,” I said. “She had braces. And this ridiculous pink backpack with keychains from every bodega in the Bronx. One day she walked to school and didn’t come back.”

Delgado didn’t interrupt.

“The first week, we thought she ran away. The second week, they said maybe she’d gotten involved with someone. The third week... the cops stopped calling.”

Delgado's jaw tightened. “You think the Morettis took her?”

“I don’t think. I feel it.” I crushed the cigarette under my boot. “And I’m going to find out.”

He nodded once. “You get in deep enough, Reyes, they’ll either kill you or recruit you.”

I looked back toward the club, where the bass still pounded and Luca’s empire thrived behind tinted glass.

“Let them try,” I said.

Two Nights Later

The warehouse was a meat locker in disguise.

Freezing steel walls. A floor that smelled like old bleach and rot. I’d followed Nico, one of Luca’s lieutenants, out of the club and into the loading bay off Gravesend. Supposedly to help with “inventory.” Luca said it was part of my training.

What he meant was: prove yourself.

There were crates, lined up like coffins. Sealed. Unmarked. One had air holes.

Nico handed me a clipboard and a pen. “Count them. Log the manifest.”

“What’s in them?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.

He smirked. “Better if you don’t know.”

I logged each crates one, two, and three. On the fourth, I heard scratching from inside.

My stomach twisted. I forced myself to write the numbers, even as my hand trembled.

Behind me, Nico lit a cigarette and laughed with another guy Tony, I think his name was. He didn’t notice my handshake. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

They didn’t care about any of it.

When they weren’t looking, I slipped my phone from my bra and snapped a blurry photo of the serial code etched on the crate’s corner. Then I pressed my palm flat against the steel. A heartbeat pulsed on the other side.

I almost collapsed.

Not Camila, not her but someone’s sister. Someone’s daughter. Someone breathing.

Later That Night

In my rented apartment, I paced the living room with the lights off. The place smelled like metal and mildew. I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. My arms still felt the cold from the warehouse, like the chill had gotten inside my bones and wouldn’t leave.

I uploaded the photo to the task force server, encrypted it, and tagged it:

"Crate 4B. Potential live cargo. Gravesend docks. No labels. Investigate immediately."

Then I sat on the floor and cried until my ribs hurt. I didn’t sob. Not out loud. Just tears, quiet and shaking, running down my cheeks while I stared at the wall.

Camila’s voice again, “When I grow up, I’m gonna work with you. You’ll be the cop, and I’ll be the brains.”

I pressed my fist to my mouth to shut it all up.

The Next Day

At the club, Luca was waiting for me.

He was in the back office, dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, tattoos on his forearms I hadn’t seen before. One was a serpent eating its tail, the other was Roman numerals dates.

“Good work last night,” he said without preamble.

“Inventory’s easy,” I replied.

He raised an eyebrow. “Not everyone can stomach it.”

“I’m not everyone.”

He stood slowly and walked around the desk, I didn’t move. We were inches apart. He studied my face like he was trying to see through it.

“You ever wonder what’s in those crates?” he asked, quietly.

“Only if I want to lose sleep.”

That made him smile.

“Smart girl,” he said. “You’re learning.”

He touched a lock of my hair. I let him.

Because letting him meant staying alive, letting him meant getting closer, and letting him mean Camila might still have a chance.

Even if it killed me.