Chapter 2 - Chiara
Sockets don’t care what you’ve seen. They don’t ask questions or leave blood on your hands.
I line them up across the tray—half-inch, nine-sixteenths, five-eighths. Organizing by size, smallest to largest. Metric row below that. Ratchets laid to the side, wiped clean. I scrub a rag over the chrome head, even though it’s already spotless. Something to keep my hands busy.
Stay busy. Stay Clara.
The socket tray shifts slightly on the bench. I nudge it straight with my wrist, then reach for a wrench. It slips from my grip.
My hand’s shaking.
I flex my fingers once, hard, then pick it up again. This time, steady. I press my thumb over the knurling. Hold. Release. Reset.
It wasn’t supposed to be him. Not here. Not that fast.
I breathe in through my nose, roll my neck once, and keep my eyes on the work.
The transmission’s halfway out. I have the car up on jack stands, left side angled to give easier access.
Drip pan under the housing, catching residual fluid from the lines I detached earlier.
Should be simple. Standard pull, open inspection, replace seals, replace solenoids, reassemble. No need to think beyond that.
But it plays in my head anyway—him stepping out of the dark, the way he moved, the blade, the blood. Fast. Efficient. Precise.
There’s a reason I recognized Rocco before he recognized me.
And now that he’s back? The timeline’s tight.
I reach for the pry bar and set it next to the torque wrench. Still too clean.
The garage is half-lit, low and steady. Two lamps over the main bay, one bulb flickering in the corner, but holding on. The radio’s on—low Spanish guitar, crackling through the same old speaker Sal never replaces. Outside, rain’s barely a whisper now. The last of last night’s storm.
I haven’t slept. Not really. Three hours, maybe. But I showed up on time, unlocked the back, and started inventory like nothing happened. Clara can’t afford a personal day.
The smell of oil keeps me grounded. It gets into your skin, under your nails, no matter how hard you scrub. Most people hate it. I prefer it to cologne, perfume, or any trace of the old life. Oil and metal. At least they’re honest.
I’m elbow-deep under the frame when I hear the door creak open. A slow drag of hinges that should’ve been oiled months ago. Sal’s boots scrape across the concrete.
“Clara,” he says, already puffing.
I don’t look up. “Morning, Sal.”
“It’s six.”
“Still feels like morning.”
He exhales through his teeth and steps closer, the smell of cigar smoke settling in before he does. I keep my hands inside the housing, adjusting the alignment ring. Don’t give him a reason to study my face.
“You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Customer. Late night,” I say, keeping my eyes on the gasket seal. “One of yours.”
He grunts. “Yeah, I heard.” Another puff. “He’s crew.”
I finally glance at him. “You checking in or warning me?”
“I’m saying he’s not regular foot traffic. You be careful around that one.”
I wipe my hands off on the rag and fold it over the edge of the bench. “I can handle a Ferrano transmission, Sal.”
He smirks. Then remembers who I’m supposed to be, and dials it back. “Good,” he says instead. “Don’t need more mess on this lot.”
He leaves it there. Doesn’t ask what I mean by “late night.” Doesn’t ask why I came in early or why I haven’t touched my coffee. He just huffs, takes another puff from the cigar, and walks off toward the office.
I wait until the door closes behind him.
Then I breathe.
Back to the tray. Back to Clara. The mask stays on better when my hands are moving.
I walk back to the side of the car, grip the pan with both hands, and ease it down onto the cart. Fluid drips in sluggish streams. I roll the cart to the side and grab the new filter and gasket kit from the shelf. As I tear open the packaging, my eyes drift back to the door.
He might come back today. Rocco. Maybe just to check on the car. Maybe to press more than that.
But he saw me. Not fully, not yet—but enough. He saw a woman who didn’t blink when a man bled out ten feet away. That kind of detail doesn’t slip past someone like him.
And he watched me long enough to start remembering.
Just another job. Fix it. Keep your head down.
I hold the gasket in both hands, line it up, and start screwing it into place.
I don’t hear the door open.
He moves quietly for a man his size.
“Thought I’d check on progress,” Rocco says from behind me.
The ratchet slips in my hand. Not far, not dangerously—but enough to catch my nerves. I keep my eyes on the engine, fingers tightening around the tool like it didn’t just almost spin out of my grip.
“You’re early,” I mutter. “Still working on it.”
I lean back slightly and reset the angle. Just enough to let my body absorb the shift in the room. The way his voice cuts through it. Grounded. Clean. He doesn’t clear his throat. Doesn’t shuffle his feet. He just is.
He doesn’t answer right away. I hear the rustle of fabric, then the soft creak of the hook near the entrance. He’s taking off his jacket. Making himself comfortable.
I don’t like that.
“You work fast,” he says.
“I work quiet. Helps with focus.”
My tone’s flat on purpose. I’m not trying to engage. I’m trying to hold a line. He doesn’t cross it, but he doesn’t leave either.
I slide the ratchet back onto the tray and reach for the torque wrench.
The pressure gauge is slightly off. I pretend to recalibrate it, knowing damn well it doesn’t need adjusting.
His presence makes my shoulders tighten—not in fear, just in anticipation.
There’s a pattern to men like him, and this one’s smart enough not to give away which way he’s leaning.
He doesn’t talk. Just stands there. Watching.
The hum of the radio buzzes faintly from the back shelf, a low instrumental loop playing through static. The same guitar track that ran all afternoon. It was enough to calm me earlier. Now it scratches at the edge of my nerves.
I feel the pressure of his gaze settle on my back.
Not invasive. Just steady.
I exhale through my nose, keep my stance even, and turn slightly, just enough to grab my bag off the bench behind me. It’s in the way of the spare gasket kit. I tug it by the strap, intending to shove it under the shelf.
But the zipper catches.
The photo slides out before I can stop it.
It lands face-up between my boots. The color’s worn, edges soft, the print slightly curled from heat and time.
Luca.
His expression is frozen in that half-smile. One I memorized long before the fire, long before they closed the casket on an empty shell and let the rumors rot into truth.
“Shit.”
I crouch fast, snatch the photo off the floor, and straighten again in one movement.
Rocco’s closer.
Not reaching, not breathing down my neck, but a step inside my space. I didn’t hear him move. I don’t like that either.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
His tone hasn’t shifted much, but I catch the edge of interest buried beneath it. The calculation.
“Just an old photo,” I say.
I keep my voice level and slip the picture into my back pocket, as if it means nothing. Like I didn’t just fumble the one thing I swore I’d never carry to work.
He doesn’t retreat. “He looks familiar.”
“He shouldn’t.”
Too fast. Too sharp.
I walk back to the car without waiting for his reaction. Grab the carburetor I already cleaned earlier and pretend I haven’t. Set it on the cloth like it’s a task I’m still working on. He doesn’t move.
The silence between us stretches. I keep my eyes down.
“You want an update?” I ask. “Still needs a second flush. Then another inspection pass on the valve body. Should be done tomorrow.”
“You want me to come back?”
“I want to finish the job without a second audience.”
Still no movement. I hear him shift his stance again—boots scraping the concrete once. Then twice.
“You’re good at this,” he says. “Not many people your age with hands like that.”
I glance at him just once. No smile. “Some of us didn’t grow up with a backup plan.”
It’s not meant to land as heavy as it does, but the words hang between us longer than I expect.
He nods once. Quiet.
Then he turns.
He walks out like he walked in—easy, steady, without noise or posture. The door clicks shut behind him.
I don’t breathe for four seconds.
Then I watch him through the garage window as he crosses the lot. He doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t look back. He walks like a man who’s already gotten what he needed—or who knows how to wait to get it later.
I drop my bag under the shelf and flick the volume knob on the radio up two clicks.
Noise. Motion. Routine.
I press my palms flat against the workbench and lean forward slightly.
“Don’t fall apart now,” I whisper. “Keep the lie clean.”