Chapter 1 – Rocco
I’m halfway down the block when I check my jacket pocket and realize the phone’s not there.
Could’ve sworn I tossed it back after texting Sal. I stop walking, pat down both sides, and check the inside lining. Empty. Glove box, then. I must’ve dropped it when I was grabbing the registration.
Rain’s steady but light. The street’s quiet. Most of the neighborhood shuts down early. Little bodegas, corner laundromats, a couple tire shops closed up tight. Nothing flashy around here. That’s probably the point.
I head back toward the garage.
There’s no reason to feel off, but I do.
Has nothing to do with the job. That woman—Clara, or whatever she’s calling herself—set off a twitch I don’t get often.
Not danger. Just…misalignment. Like a face I almost recognize, but not enough to pin down.
Could be nothing. Could be something worth clocking.
The door’s not locked. I push it open with the side of my boot.
“Forgot my phone in the glove box,” I call out, voice level as I step inside.
Clara jumps.
Not a full jolt, but enough. Her left hand freezes on the socket wrench mid-turn. She covers it quickly with a shift of her elbow, like she’s repositioning instead of reacting.
“Jesus,” she mutters, then exhales through her nose. “You move quietly.”
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
That’s not entirely true. I didn’t walk heavy either. But her reaction’s sharper than it should be. She’s not just surprised—she’s bracing.
I walk past the workbench and head to the car.
It’s still parked where I left it, hood down.
Passenger door locked. Driver’s side ajar just slightly.
I open it, reach into the glove box, and spot the phone wedged near a napkin and a crushed receipt.
I pocket it without a word, but keep my eyes on her.
She hasn’t gone back to work.
Her grip’s still loose on the wrench, like she’s holding it out of habit more than use. Her shoulders are up. Eyes forward but not focused on anything in particular.
“You alright?” I ask, keeping it casual.
“Fine,” she says too fast. “Just startled.” Then she rolls her eyes, as if she knows it sounded off. “You usually double back on clients?”
Her half-grin’s dry. Not nervous, just…practiced.
“Only when I forget stuff,” I say. “Could’ve sworn I had it in my jacket.”
“Well, I don’t think you left a wallet,” she says, stepping to the side to give me space. “You’d have heard me shaking it by now.”
I chuckle, short. “Appreciate the honesty.”
She shrugs, turns toward the back corner of the garage. Moves like she wants me out of here. She’s not rushing, but she’s managing the flow of the moment. That’s not mechanic behavior. That’s something else. I’ve seen people guide conversations like that. People who want to stay out of sight.
“Sal didn’t say you were the only one here,” I say, watching her hands as she sets the wrench down. “Hell of a setup for a one-woman operation.”
“Keeps the overhead low,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Less payroll. Fewer mouths.”
I nod.
Makes sense. Still, something’s not lining up.
I look at her again. She’s in the same hoodie.
Grease down one sleeve, black hair tied back with a faded band.
There’s a streak of grime on her cheek, like she wiped her face with the back of her hand and didn’t check a mirror. But none of it reads unprofessional.
It reads hidden.
Not sloppy. Not disorganized. Just quiet. Clean hands, clean exit.
“You work late often?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “You interested in scheduling, or just trying to figure out if I’m sleeping with the lights on?”
“I don’t ask questions I don’t need answers to.”
She meets my eyes then. First time full-on. Brown. Clear. No makeup. A line of oil at the corner of one eyelid, like she scratched it earlier without thinking.
“You’re a client, right?” she says, tone flat now. “Not a cop. Not one of Sal’s friends playing bodyguard. Just a guy with a busted transmission.”
I nod. “For now.”
She smiles, but it’s gone quickly. “Well, then we’re good.”
She walks back to the bench and taps the clipboard once, like she’s checking a mental list. No notes written down. No time logs. It’s all in her head, or she’s pretending it is. Either way, it’s tight.
I step away from the car and toward the door.
“Thanks for the work,” I say. “Shouldn’t be long.”
She’s already opening the door for me. “Right. Wouldn’t want you to forget anything else.”
The way she says it isn’t warm. Not cold either. Just neutral. Like she’s choosing every line for how fast it gets me gone.
I step back outside into the rain and let the door swing closed behind me. Clara doesn’t go in. I hear her footsteps behind mine—measured, light, keeping a few paces back like she’s letting space happen on purpose.
I don’t rush. I check the street automatically. Residential block. Low-end commercial. A few scattered streetlights reflecting off wet pavement. No real movement, no headlights—just the thrum of the evening slowing down.
I’m still thinking about her reaction earlier. Not the startle—that was clean. But the recovery. Too fast. Too familiar. Like she’s trained herself to shift posture the second eyes land on her.
I pull out my phone again. Still there. No need to come back for it after all.
Then I hear tires.
Sharp turn. Hard acceleration. Not from down the block—closer. A black sedan skids around the corner, no front plate, headlights cutting wide across the street. The body jerks slightly as it swerves toward us.
“Rocco!”
It’s yelled from the passenger side, voice raised through the open window, gun already in hand. I move.
I drop down near the edge of the building just as the first shot rings out. Gunfire cracks through the rain, loud and messy. They’re not aiming to scare. They’re aiming to hit.
I glance back. Clara’s gone from my side.
The second man pours out of the sedan, hood up, arm raised. Short grip pistol, maybe a nine. He rushes me without hesitation. Sloppy form. Bad footwork. He wants to kill fast and loud.
I lunge before he can steady.
Grab his wrist, twist it, drive my knife under his arm and through the ribs. He goes stiff, sucks in a breath, and buckles forward. I shift behind him, yank the blade clean, and shove him down. He collapses hard.
Blood spreads fast across the pavement, mixing with the runoff and streaming toward the gutter.
The gun hits the ground with a dull slap. I kick it away, out of reach.
The sedan hesitates, engine idling mid-street like they’re waiting for a chance to double back. Then it jerks into reverse, scrapes the back bumper on the curb, and bolts back the way it came. Tires squeal again. Gone in seconds.
I stay crouched.
“Get inside!” I bark, eyes scanning the street again.
But Clara’s already moved.
She’s tucked behind the large steel trash bin, crouched low, hands steady against the damp ground. Eyes clear. She’s not breathing hard. She’s not hiding. She’s observing—tracking escape angles like someone trained for this.
I stand, wipe the blade on the dead guy’s hoodie, and re-sheath it. No movement from the street. Just the sound of rain again, steady and dull, bouncing off metal and pavement.
I walk over to her.
“You alright?” I ask.
She stands up fully. No hesitation. No blood on her that I can see—just a little dirt smeared across one sleeve. Maybe from the wall. Maybe from diving low too fast.
“Yeah,” she says, tone even. “You?”
“Fine.”
I study her. The scratch on her forearm isn’t worth mentioning. Her eyes are dry. No darting glances. No tremble in her fingers. She looks like she just came off a shift, not like she watched a man bleed out two feet away.
“You’re calm for someone who just watched a guy bleed out.”
She rolls one shoulder and wipes a hand across her mouth, smearing a grease line across her cheek.
“Wasn’t my first knife fight,” she says. Then she adds, dry as sandpaper, “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
That gets my attention. Not the joke, but how flatly she delivers it. No smile behind the eyes. No nerves. No instinct to make me more comfortable. She means part of it. And she doesn’t care if I figure out which part.
I watch her for another second. Long enough to read the posture. She’s squared off, but not defensive. Like she’s used to watching backs, not covering her own.
I take a breath and nod. “Let’s keep this between us.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just pulls her hair back and tucks it under her hood.
“Sure,” she says. “Your mess, your cleanup.”
She doesn’t linger on it. Doesn’t offer to help. Doesn’t ask what it was about. Which tells me she already has ideas and doesn’t need confirmation.
I glance at the body once more. Blood’s pooled around the torso, spreading along the cracked pavement. It’ll wash away some in the rain, but not all. I’ll need to handle it tonight. Make a call. Get someone to scrub it before the morning shift joggers come through.
I step toward the sidewalk.
“See you tomorrow, maybe,” I say.
I don’t look back.