Veil of Blood (Crimson Crowns #5)

Prologue – Chiara

The socket slips.

Again.

I steady it with both hands this time and lock in the bolt with a hard twist. A short click echoes off the casing. Almost stripped it, but not quite. I mutter a curse under my breath and lean forward, tightening it the rest of the way.

The metal gives. Finally.

This one’s not a clean build. Older engine, rust in the threads, mismatched parts.

But I’ve worked worse. Nothing here’s ever factory standard.

Miami weather eats everything soft. Salt in the air corrodes half the things before they even roll in.

The rest get patched together from whatever junkyard salvage Sal hauls in.

Still, the job gets done.

I switch to a smaller wrench, check the housing seals again, and retighten just to be sure.

The fluorescent light above me buzzes every few seconds.

Not enough to be broken, just enough to make you notice.

Rain hits the tin roof steadily now, a dull tapping rhythm I’ve grown used to.

No thunder. No wind. Just light, persistent drizzle and the scent of warm oil and soaked pavement.

It’s close enough to quiet that I can think. Not deep thoughts. Just enough to keep the parts moving in the right order. That’s the trick—stay in motion, stay in the now.

I press my shoulder into the frame and reach underneath, checking the belt tension by feel.

Too loose.

I roll back on the creeper and sit up on the garage floor. My jeans stick to the concrete in the knees, damp with something I hope isn’t brake fluid. The rag I’ve been using is dark with grime. I toss it onto the bench and scrub the back of my hand across my forehead.

The smell in here never changes. Grease. Burnt rubber. Faint mold from the leak in the corner Sal still hasn’t fixed. I don’t mind it anymore. It clings to the clothes I keep in a milk crate in the back office. It’s in my sheets. In my hair.

That’s the price of disappearing. No glamour. Just oil stains and short showers.

I grab a flathead and get back under the hood. There’s a leak around the valve cover that I don’t like. Sal’s expecting this thing to run by the weekend. He didn’t ask what name to put on the invoice. Clara doesn’t get invoices.

He pays me in cash, keeps his mouth shut, and doesn’t ask where I came from. That’s why I chose his place. No cameras, no receipts, no questions.

All he cares about is that the work’s good and the cars don’t come back.

I tighten another bolt, then reach for the light and angle it toward the back of the block.

“Check the timing belt before you forget again,” I mutter.

The words come out dry, like I’m reminding someone else. But no one else is here. Just me and the mess I’ve made of both this job and everything before it.

The mirror in the corner catches a bit of the overhead light.

I glance at it, out of habit more than anything. The thing’s rusted, cracked at the edges, barely reflective anymore. But it still shows enough. Still shows me.

I see the hoodie, sleeves bunched up around my elbows. Grease smeared across my collarbone. My face is thinner than it used to be. Sharper. No makeup. Nothing to soften the lines. Black hair pulled back with a busted elastic band. Tired eyes.

I stare for a second longer than I mean to.

“Clara gets the job done. Chiara’s dead,” I mutter.

That line again. It’s the one that keeps the rest of it down.

Months before I ever set foot in this garage, I learned to hide every part of myself.

In a dimly lit studio tucked behind a suburban strip mall, I spent nights rehearsing vowel drills until my voice curled into a softer register.

I wore padded vests to deepen my shoulders, then stood in front of a cracked mirror, widening my stance, shortening my strides—teaching my body new habits.

A prosthetic artist had even fitted my cheekbones with thin silicone inserts. When I finally stepped outside, I was no longer the girl who’d lost everything; I was Clara, a ghost in a grease-stained coverall.

I reach for the chain around my neck. Tug it out from under my shirt with my thumb. The metal is worn smooth. Cold. It’s the only thing I kept. The last thing he gave me before everything blew up.

“You better be resting, Luca,” I say, just above a whisper. “One of us has to.”

My throat tightens. I press the pendant flat against my sternum and tuck it away again. No room for that now. The past stays in the past. If it doesn’t, it’ll bury me.

The sound cuts through the quiet, just a shift. One footstep outside the door.

I stop moving, wrench in hand, held loose.

Another step. Not a shuffle. Not like Sal’s dragging heel. Firmer. Balanced. Heavy enough to hear through the rain, not heavy enough to be careless.

I exhale once through my nose and slide the wrench off the edge of the engine bay, fingers closing around it in a familiar grip. I don’t lift it yet. I just keep it at my side. Elbow bent. Ready, if I need it.

My eyes flick toward the gap under the garage door. Nothing. No shadow. No silhouette. Whoever it is knows how to move without being seen.

That’s not good.

I keep my voice even. “If it’s another drunk off Calle Ocho, I swear—”

The door opens.

He steps in like it’s nothing. No knock. No name. Just the sound of rain behind him and boots that leave a clean trail across the concrete.

He’s soaked. Not dripping, just enough to make him look like he walked through the street without a hood, without caring. He scans the space once, quick, efficient. Doesn’t look at me twice. That should help. It doesn’t.

I recognize him instantly.

Rocco Damiani.

Same build. Same way of standing—still, like the room’s waiting on him instead of the other way around.

The leather jacket is worn down at the collar, zipper half stuck.

His hair’s shorter than it used to be. Beard’s new.

Not full, but enough to age him. Still has that walk, though.

That calm, even pace that always made people shut up before he even said a word.

He doesn’t know me. Not like this. Not here.

He doesn’t pause to take a better look. Just nods toward the garage door behind him.

“Transmission’s out,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Low, clipped. “Sal said you’d know your shit.”

I don’t let anything show.

I keep my eyes on the toolbox in front of me and move slowly, like I’ve got no reason to react. He’s just another job. Just another body walking in off the street.

“Guess he told the truth for once,” I say, grabbing a clean rag to wipe the wrench in my hand. “Leave the keys.”

Rocco pulls them from his jacket pocket and sets them on the workbench. They land with a soft clink, the fob scratched and old. My fingers twitch when he steps back, like some part of me still expects a fight or a kiss or both.

He doesn’t move away right away.

Instead, he watches me for a second too long. Eyes narrowed slightly. Not suspicious. Just…off.

“Have we met before?” he asks.

“No.” I don’t look up. I pretend to double-check the bolts on the bench vise. “You one of those types who flirts by asking boring questions?”

There’s a pause. Then a soft laugh. Just once. It barely lifts the tension.

“Just déjà vu,” he says. “No offense.”

None taken. That’s what I want—déjà vu. A face he might’ve seen in a crowd. Not one he’s touched. Not one he’s watched bleed.

I keep quiet.

He turns a little, like he’s about to head out, but something keeps him there. His fingers hover over the doorknob. He doesn’t face me directly this time. Just over the shoulder, voice casual, he asks, “You’re fast, right?”

I reach for the clipboard near the edge of the bench. “On the clock? Always.”

Rocco nods once. Like it’s good enough. Like I passed some kind of check.

Then he leaves.

The door shuts behind him. I count five seconds before I move. Then ten more before I let myself breathe. Not loud. Not shaky. Just enough.

I press my palm flat on the bench, then curl it into a fist. My grip tightens against the metal edge. Too hard. My skin pinches. I don’t stop until I feel the bone in my hand protest.

“You’re supposed to be dead to him, too,” I say, quiet but steady. “Don’t screw this up.”