SMOKE IN THE SOUTH DISTRICT

ZACH

The South District never sleeps. It smokes.

Smog from the factories clings to the buildings. Cigarette ash on every curb. And secrets float through the air like they’ve been exhaled by ghosts.

This place raised me. And now it’s starting to whisper.

I’d planned to lay low. Not because I’m scared, because I don’t like being seen. I’ve spent most of my life in the shadows. Skating rooftops. Tagging alley walls. Living in the places no one bothers to clean.

But ever since Milo brought me that name, I haven’t been able to ignore the heat crawling under my skin.

Veronin. That name is a thread, and I’m pulling at it with shaking hands.

I walk the alleys I used to sleep in. Places that stink of piss and old oil. The place where my brother bled out. The corner where I first lit a cigarette and decided I wasn’t afraid to die anymore.

I check in with people I haven’t talked to in years.

One of them, Jay, an old junkie with eyes like storm glass, leans over his rusted balcony and hisses my name like a warning.

“You look like him,” he says.

“Like who?”

“The ghost.” He laughs, toothless. “The one with the scar. The one who used to run this place before the city forgot him.”

I narrow my eyes.

“What was his name?”

Jay stares at me too long, then shrugs.

“Don’t say names out loud anymore, boy. They’re listening again.”

He points at the street like it’s haunted.

“The Russians. They want him back.”

Me. They want me back.

But why?

I leave the South District with my pulse in my throat.

Every corner feels watched. Every shadow feels sharper than it did yesterday. I don’t know if it’s paranoia or prophecy, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s closing in.

That I’m being… hunted.

Back at my place, I lock the doors twice and close the blinds. It’s early evening, but I don’t turn the lights on. I sit in the dark with a sketchbook and a pen and let my hands move.

I don’t even know what I’m drawing until it’s done.

It’s a crest. A symbol. Two black wings wrapped around a dagger, bleeding roses curling around the blade.

I stare at it, heart hammering.

I’ve seen this before.

In a dream?

No. Older than that.

Somewhere buried in my childhood. A memory - brief, blurred, before I was shuffled into the system.

Someone once wore this on their jacket.

Someone who used to carry me on their shoulders and call me Zakhar with a grin that didn’t match the violence in his eyes.

There’s a knock at the door.

My head snaps up. My hand goes to the knife I keep under the couch cushion.

Another knock. Not loud. Not frantic. Then a voice.

“Zach.”

Alana.

I exhale. Drop the blade. I let her in.

She steps inside like the air outside is too heavy for her to breathe. She’s not in a sundress today. She’s in black jeans and a cropped hoodie, and her hair’s pulled back tight.

She looks like she’s hiding from something.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods, but it’s a lie.

“I needed to see you,” she says, walking toward me.

I open my arms, and she folds into me like it’s the only safe place left in the world.

She stays like that for a while. No words. No stories.

Just breathing. Just trembling.

I want to ask what’s wrong. But I don’t. Not yet.

Instead, I brush my fingers through her hair and kiss her forehead.

And for a second, it feels like everything is okay. Like there’s no ghost chasing me. No past I don’t understand. No mafia bloodline twisting itself around my throat.

Just us. Me and her.

The way we were before truth started scraping at the edges.

But peace never stays long.

And I see it in her eyes when she pulls away. That guilt. That ache.

Like she wants to tell me something.

But she’s too afraid it’ll wreck everything.

I know that look. I’ve worn it.

“You’ve heard the name, haven’t you?” I ask softly. “Veronin.”

She freezes.

That’s the answer.

I nod slowly, jaw clenched. “Who are they, Alana? Who am I?”

She swallows hard, hands trembling. “I can’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” I take a step back. “You’ve known something this whole time. Haven’t you?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

“From my family,” she snaps.

The words hit like gunfire.

Silence spreads like smoke between us.

I stare at her, chest tight.

“Your family?”

She nods. And when she speaks again, her voice cracks.

“My father’s name is Roman Vittore.”

The name punches something out of my lungs.

Because I know it.

Everyone in the District knows that name. Even if they don’t speak it out loud.

Mafia. Old money. Ruthless. Untouchable. And she’s his daughter. Of course she is.

It makes sense now. The careful lies. The perfect silence. The way she moves through danger like it’s nothing new.

She’s not just part of it. She was born into it.

I sit down hard on the couch.

“You lied to me,” I say, not looking at her.

“I didn’t lie.”

“You let me fall for you.”

“You think I wanted to?” she fires back, voice breaking. “You think I planned this?”

She drops to her knees in front of me, eyes wide, desperate. “Zach, I didn’t mean for this to happen. But I love you.”

Those words sting more than anything else.

Because I know she means them.

And that means it’s going to hurt worse when it all falls apart.

I look at her for a long time.

This girl who was never really mine. Who was always someone’s daughter before she was ever just Alana.

“I need to know the truth,” I say. “Everything.”

She hesitates.

But then…

She nods.

And when she speaks, the air around us changes.

“I think you were born into a rival family,” she says. “The Veronins. My father doesn’t talk about them, not really. But I’ve heard the name. They were powerful. Cold. Ruthless. Just like him.”

“And they left me?”

“They disappeared. No one knows what happened. Your name was never supposed to come up again.”

I let that sink in. “But it did.”

“Yes. And now my father knows who you are. He’s watching. Planning.”

I press my hands over my face.

“I don’t even know these people,” I say. “But somehow I’m supposed to be a threat?”

“It’s not what you’ve done,” she whispers. “It’s who you could be.”

We sit in silence again. Both of us wrecked by words we didn’t ask to say.

Eventually, I pull her into my lap. Hold her tighter than I should.

“You should’ve told me,” I murmur.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Neither do I.”

But deep down, I do.

Because if Roman wants me gone, and my past wants me back, then I only have one option left:

Burn everything down before they choose for me.