Chapter 6 – Chiara
The main lights are off.
Just one bulb hangs overhead in the backroom, ticking quietly like it’s been on too long. It buzzes sometimes, not enough to distract, but enough to keep the room from being still.
I pace.
Back and forth across the same six feet between the crates and the sink. My boots leave faint smudges on the floor. I rub at the dried grease on my hands like it’ll help me think. Like it’ll strip the last hour off my skin.
He’s gone.
Car’s gone. Keys taken. Words tucked in his back pocket like he’s waiting to throw them down next time.
Questions aren’t gone.
They never are.
I reach for the towel hanging on the shelf, wipe harder. The friction stings, but it’s not enough. Nothing I do right now feels like enough.
I glance toward the mirror above the sink. It’s cracked at the edge, been like that since I took over the place. I keep meaning to fix it, but I don’t. It’s the only thing in here that still shows me what I actually look like when I stop pretending.
I look away before the reflection settles in.
“You can’t let this fall apart because of his voice,” I mutter. “Or his face. Or that fucking look.”
But that look is what’s been circling my thoughts for two hours straight.
I haven’t touched food. Haven’t sat down. I’ve just kept moving. Swept the bay floor. Sorted sockets I already organized. I took apart a carburetor that didn’t need touching just to feel my hands doing something useful.
Nothing helped.
So I’m in here now. Backroom closed off, tools packed in their trays, the garage sealed for the night. But I’m still pacing.
I grab the wrench from the crate beside me. Don’t need it. Don’t even think about it. I just hold it like muscle memory’s the only thing I trust.
A knock breaks through the noise in my head. Soft, twice, metal-on-metal.
I freeze.
Then the door shifts open an inch.
Rocco steps in.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He closes the door behind him, slow. The sound isn’t loud, but in here, everything feels sharper.
“Didn’t mean to sneak up,” he says. “You left the back unlocked.”
I narrow my eyes. “So, what? You just walk into places now?”
“Only when I’m not done talking.”
He doesn’t move far from the door. Stays to the wall. Gives me space, like he’s reading the room. He probably is. He always could read me faster than I liked.
I keep the wrench in my hand.
“I said what I needed to,” I tell him.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
He’s not pushing. Not like earlier. His voice is quieter now. Controlled. But I can feel the heat under it, the pressure he’s holding back.
“You lied about the photo.”
“Drop it.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Not when I know what I saw. And not when I look at you and still hear her.”
I step back. It’s instinct. No plan behind it. But I move.
“You don’t know anything.”
“I knew her better than most.”
His eyes move down—just enough to catch the chain at my collar.
“And you’re standing here wearing her brother’s necklace.”
My chest tightens. I don’t move. Don’t speak.
I should lie again.
I don’t.
The wrench in my hand lowers an inch. Not because I trust him. Not because I’m letting him in. But because this part—this moment—I can’t fake my way through it.
He says it softly.
“Chiara.”
My throat closes.
It’s not the name. It’s the way he says it. Like it’s a secret I almost got away with.
I meet his eyes. That’s my mistake.
The air between us pulls tight. I hate that I feel it. I hate that I want it.
“I should tell you to leave,” I say, voice too shaky.
“Then do it.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. Just waits.
I don’t say anything.
He steps in slowly. Reaches for my face. One hand, no pressure. Just his palm against my cheek like he’s waiting for me to push him away.
I don’t.
“You don’t have to run,” he says. “Not from me.”
My fingers claw at the front of his shirt, knuckles whitening as I grip the fabric taut.
I yank him closer, the space between us vanishing in a heartbeat. His mouth crashes into mine before I can second-guess the fire igniting in my chest.
The kiss isn’t frantic, not some reckless collision I can dismiss later. It’s deliberate, searing, unraveling me with every slow, deliberate sweep of his lips.
He kisses me like he’s memorized every curve of my mouth, every shudder I can’t hide. And I let him—God, I let him.
My spine slams against the crate stack, the rough wood biting through my shirt. His body molds to mine, all heat and hard lines, and I don’t shove him away.
My hands roam, restless, greedy—tangling in the damp hair at his nape, skimming the broad expanse of his chest, clutching at his sides where muscle shifts under my touch. I can’t stay still. I don’t want to.
His breath is hot against my jaw, trailing sparks as he murmurs my name like a prayer.
“This isn’t smart,” I gasp, lips brushing his as I speak, my voice trembling with the weight of it.
“I don’t care.” His words are quiet, raw, like a secret he’s carried too long, finally breaking free.
The cot’s there, a shadowed promise behind me. I don’t know when we stumble toward it, but the world tilts, and suddenly we’re falling.
The frame groans under our weight, springs creaking as my thighs lock around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.
His mouth finds my throat, lips dragging slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make my pulse stutter. My shirt’s bunched high, twisted under my arms, exposing skin that hums under his gaze.
His fingers slip beneath the fabric, not rushed but sure, like he’s mapping every inch of me. They trace the curve of my ribs, teasing the edge of my bra, lingering where my breath catches.
I arch into him, nails raking down his back, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his shirt. The cold bite of his chain grazes my collarbone, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands, and I gasp, the sound swallowed by the dim room.
But I don’t stop. I’m done stopping.
His thumb brushes the sensitive skin just below my navel, igniting a pulse that makes my legs tighten around him.
My hands fist in his shirt, tugging, wanting more of his weight, more of his heat. His lips hover over mine again, close enough that I can taste his breath—whiskey and want.
Our hips shift, a dangerous rhythm, and the cot creaks louder, protesting the unspoken line we’re toeing. His fingers pause, splayed across my waist, and I feel the question in his touch, the restraint trembling in his frame.
But neither of us moves to cross it.
His breath is still hot against my neck when I hear it.
A shout. Not loud. But loud enough to snap every muscle in my back to attention.
“Clara!”
Sal.
Outside. Somewhere near the lot.
I freeze under Rocco’s weight. His hands still on my sides, his lips at my collar.
Another shout, closer this time.
I shove at his chest, hard.
He blinks, stunned for a half second, then catches up fast. He sits back on the edge of the cot, chest heaving. I scramble upright, pulling my shirt down with shaking fingers. My mouth still tastes like him, and that alone makes my brain short out.
“You have to go,” I whisper.
Rocco doesn’t argue. He stands, shirt half-open, eyes already scanning the room. His jacket’s slung over the chair by the crates. He grabs it, shoves his arms through, doesn’t bother to fix the collar.
“I’m serious.” I step in front of him. “You can’t be seen back here. If Sal walks in—”
“I got it.”
I push the back exit open just enough for him to slide through. The alley behind the garage is narrow, dark, still damp from the drizzle earlier. He pauses in the doorway.
“This changes everything.”
“No.” I stare hard. “It complicates everything.”
Rocco stares at me. His face is calm, but I can see the heat in his throat, the tension in the set of his arms. He wants to say more. I won’t let him.
I shove his jacket the rest of the way at him, fingers brushing his wrist just once before I drop it.
“Tomorrow?” he asks.
I hesitate too long.
“Go,” I say.
He goes.
The door clicks shut behind him. I don’t breathe until I hear his steps fade.
My knees nearly buckle.
I slide down onto the cot again, elbows on my thighs, head in my hands. My mouth is still damp. My shirt’s wrinkled. My heart hasn’t slowed once since he walked in.
None of this should’ve happened.
I rub at my face like I can wipe it off me. All of it.
The door slams again.
Not the back.
Sal walks in with a clipboard, reading it like nothing in the world could possibly matter more than whatever scribble’s on the last line.
“Got a pickup in an hour,” he says, not looking up. “You good?”
I swallow and force my voice to hold. “Yeah. Fine.”
He gives me a grunt and walks through toward the hallway, muttering something about brake pads and idiot drivers.
He’s gone in seconds.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
“You idiot,” I whisper to myself.
I lean back slowly, spine against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me. The bulb above buzzes faintly, casting hard shadows on the floor.
My hand shakes as I wipe at my mouth with the back of it.
“It was supposed to be done,” I say under my breath. “Eight years gone, and I let him back in with one look.”
I sit there for another minute. Maybe ten. I don’t count.
The cot creaks when I shift. My shoulder hits the wall again. My chain slides along my collarbone, and I catch it between two fingers without thinking.
Rocco touched this chain like it meant something.
He said my name like he still owned a part of it.
And I let him.
I don’t finish the thought. I don’t want to.
I reach up and flip the light off.
The backroom drops into gray. I lie down on the cot and stare at the ceiling through the dark. The window’s cracked, and I can hear cars passing on the next block.
For once, I don’t imagine they’re chasing me.
But that’s not comfort.
It’s warning.
He’ll be back.
And next time, I won’t have a wrench in my hand.