Chapter 4 – Chiara
His car’s done.
Everything under the hood’s sealed tight.
Transmission flushed. Valve body rebuilt from scratch.
I even repolished the torque converter housing, not because I needed to, but because it kept my hands moving.
I checked the wiring twice. Rechecked the fluids.
Left the keys on the bench. All in a row. Labeled. Clean.
It should be gone in an hour.
Hopefully, he stays gone, too.
I step out the back door and into the alley, dragging the collar of my shirt up to wipe the sweat from my neck.
It’s humid. Not hot. Just sticky in a way that makes everything feel like it’s pressing closer than it should.
The rain stopped earlier, but the puddles linger.
The concrete’s still slick near the drain.
I lean against the wall and press the heel of my hand to my chest once. Just once. Then I breathe. Deep in. Count four. Out. Again.
The alley’s empty.
Mostly.
A dog barks two streets over. A car door slams faintly out front. No voices. Nothing strange. I try to focus on that—just the usual neighborhood noise, nothing more.
But I’m gripping the wrench I brought out with me like it’s a lifeline. Three-quarter inch, slightly rusted at the grip. I don’t need it out here. I brought it anyway.
Clara doesn’t get jumped in alleys. Chiara does.
And right now, Clara’s skin feels too thin.
I stare down at the pavement for a second, watching rain slide off the awning above and break into drops against the brick near my shoulder. My mind keeps flashing back to the way Rocco looked at me yesterday. The photo. The pause in his voice. The chain.
I should’ve burned the picture when I had the chance.
It’s still in my locker, tucked between the lining and the back panel. I tell myself that’s enough distance. That the hiding place is clever enough. But every time I think about it, my gut twists. Not guilt. Instinct.
Rocco didn’t come back this morning. No call. No update.
But that doesn’t mean he’s not circling.
He’ll show up when he’s ready. That’s the kind of man he is. Never when you expect. Always when your guard dips by half an inch.
A shadow shifts at the alley’s edge.
I freeze, fingers tightening around the wrench.
At first, I think it’s just a shift in light, a car turning at the mouth of the street. But the shape holds, grows, becomes a figure. Male. Hoodie. Dark jeans. Limps slightly on one leg. Right side heavier. He’s not running. Not shouting. Just moving steady.
I push off the wall, stay still.
He stops ten feet from me. “Falcone, right?” he asks.
I don’t move.
“You drive like a ghost.”
I take one step back, into the deeper shade where the door to the garage is half-blocked by a stack of crates. My fingers press into the wrench. “You’ve got the wrong girl.”
He smiles, crooked and cracked. Two of his front teeth are capped in silver. There’s a scar through his left eyebrow. The kind of face you remember if you’ve ever had to throw a punch and run.
“Nah,” he says. “Javier doesn’t miss.”
He pulls a folded photo from his back pocket and flicks it open. Holds it between two fingers like it’s casual. Just a joke. Just something funny he brought to a bar.
It’s not.
The image is grainy but familiar. It’s me—three months back, midnight race, hair tied high, one hand on the gearshift of that Camaro we rebuilt in the warehouse lot. Neck visible. Chain visible.
“Javier says you should’ve stayed buried,” he says, stepping closer.
I swing before he finishes the next word.
The wrench hits his cheek with a crack—hard and fast, all the force of my shoulder behind it. His face jerks sideways. Blood sprays across the edge of the wall. He stumbles, drops the photo. His hand flies to his mouth, then comes away red.
“You—”
I don’t wait for him to finish.
I bolt.
Left foot kicks off hard. I clear the crates and lunge for the back door. It’s already cracked open from when I stepped out. I slam through it and pull it shut behind me, hand on the bolt lock, twisting it down fast.
My lungs are tight. Not panicked. Controlled. Every breath hurts from how deep I’m pulling.
I press my back to the door and listen.
Outside, nothing.
No running footsteps. No banging. Just the beat of my heart and the taste of adrenaline sour in my mouth.
I slide to the floor.
For a second, just a second, I stay there.
Then I stand.
Walk to the bench. Set the wrench down without looking at it.
My hands are shaking again.
My lungs work hard but even—controlled. There’s blood on the wrench, drying quickly, brown at the edges. I don’t look at it again.
I don’t move until I hear his footsteps.
Not the thug. He’s not coming back. Not bleeding like that.
No, the footsteps coming now are steady. Familiar. Slower. Not chasing. Approaching.
By the time the front door swings open, I already know it’s him.
Rocco steps into the garage like he’s been here a hundred times, like he never left at all. No fanfare. No warning. Just shows up, takes the room in with one sweep of those eyes, and locks onto me.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
His eyes flick to the wrench on the floor. To the smudge of blood I didn’t have time to clean. Then to my hands, still shaking even though I’m trying to hide it by balling them into fists at my sides.
Then he speaks. “You okay?”
It’s not soft. Not hard either. Just level.
My spine straightens.
“Fine,” I answer. “He was just…drunk.”
The lie hangs in the room like engine smoke. He doesn’t buy it, and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either.
Rocco steps farther inside. He’s not tense, but there’s a sharpness to the way he moves. Eyes checking the corners. The exits. The blood trail leading to the bench.
“That drunk knew your name.”
I cross my arms, keep my body square. Don’t flinch. Don’t retreat.
He adds, “And you swung like you’ve done it before.”
I lift my chin.
“Self-defense,” I say. “I didn’t ask for backup.”
His mouth doesn’t twitch, but I can feel the tension deepen between us. Not angry. Not yet. Just…narrowing.
“I was down the block,” he says. “Had a feeling.”
I don’t reply. Can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse.
He glances again at the door I came through, still bolted. The alley beyond it. “You lock that behind you?”
“Of course.”
“You get a look at him?”
I pause a beat. “Mid-thirties. Cuban. Scar through the brow. Knew Javier’s name.”
That gets a flicker out of him.
“You didn’t mention that,” he says.
“You didn’t ask.”
Rocco walks toward the back of the garage, not close enough to press, but near enough that I feel him pulling the truth out of the air, piece by piece.
“Who wants you dead?” he asks.
The way he says it…not gentle. But not demanding, either. It’s the tone that gets people to tell him things without realizing it.
I hold the line anyway. “You always this nosy?”
“Only when the blood’s fresh.”
I shake my head and push off the bench, creating space again. “He won’t come back. I handled it.”
“I’m not worried about him coming back,” he says. “I’m worried about what else is coming next.”
There’s a pause. Too long.
Neither of us moves.
I can feel the shift in him. The calculation. Not suspicion anymore—certainty, building like tension in a cable, tight and ready to snap.
But he doesn’t call me on it. Not yet.
Instead, he looks at me a little longer, then says, “You handled it. Just watch your back.”
He starts toward the door. His hand’s on the knob when he pauses. “Clara.”
My name. The name I built from pieces. The name I thought I could wear like armor.
He says it like he’s peeling it off me.
I freeze.
Just for a second. One breath. But it’s enough.
He sees it. I know he does. His back doesn’t turn. His posture stays neutral. But the silence between us gets heavier, and he doesn’t move.
I force my mouth to move.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “For stepping in.”
It’s the only line I can manage without giving more than I mean to.
Rocco doesn’t reply. He walks out like it’s over.
Like he’s already decided which version of me he believes.
I let the door click shut.
Then I back up until my legs hit the metal drawer chest, and I slide down to the floor.
My fingers dig into the fabric of my jeans, nails pressing into my thighs.
I breathe out hard. Once.
“He knows,” I whisper. “Or he will soon.”