Chapter 7 – Chiara
I kill the engine, yank the keys, and slam the door shut harder than I need to.
The borrowed Mitsubishi grumbles as it cools.
Paint’s a matte black, the underbody rigged with neon green.
Not subtle, but I didn’t pick it for stealth.
This car came from a friend of a friend. Cash up front, no questions.
“Helmet in the back. Number on the windshield. No talking.” That’s what the girl with the clipboard muttered earlier when she handed over the slot. Her ponytail flicked like a whip when she turned back to the next driver. I didn’t bother with names.
No one here’s interested in pleasantries anyway. It’s all noise and engines. Music pulses from a cluster of cars rigged with custom subs. People lean on hoods, drape themselves across spoilers like they’re on camera, even when they’re not. Everyone trying to be seen. I’m trying to vanish.
I keep my head down as I walk the circuit.
Concrete lanes marked by old cones and trash cans.
Makeshift barriers made out of steel fencing and barrels filled with sand.
Some guys look up. Some of them register my face—half-familiar—but not enough to place it.
A few nod like they’ve seen me run before.
They don’t know me. They know Clara. That’s the difference. Clara fixed bumpers and tuned torque curves. Chiara Ferrano used to silence men in mirrored clubs. Tonight, I’m somewhere between the two. Unstable territory.
I check the tires. My fingers brush the treads, sharp and grippy.
I circle to the front, check under the hood, quick glances at belts and clamps.
Someone wolf-whistles from behind, probably assuming I’m eye candy for a guy in the circuit.
I don’t react. Let them think whatever makes them underestimate me.
The lineup’s almost ready. Eight cars in the heat.
I’ll be in the third slot. I take a breath and climb in, helmet in hand, door groaning as it shuts.
Inside smells like sweat and oil. Steering wheel worn down at the top where someone used to palm it hard through turns.
I like that. Signs of pressure. Signs this car doesn’t fold.
I twist the helmet on tight and settle in. Hands grip the wheel, loose at first. I roll my neck, brace my elbows.
“No Rocco. No Sal. Just me and the road.”
The inside of my mouth tastes like metal.
Rocco’s name still echoes when I say it.
I can’t stop that part. Doesn’t matter how hard I try to shift focus, his voice keeps dragging in like static.
That kiss—fast, rough, unexpected—is stitched into my skin like a bad tattoo.
Every time I let my mind drift, I feel the heat of his hand sliding under my shirt, the scrape of his stubble at my neck.
He doesn’t get to own that.
I needed it. Not him.
The signal drops—an old metal bat smacking asphalt three times. That’s the start cue. Engines roar all at once. I snap forward in my seat and hammer the gas.
The car lurches, tires scream against pavement, and I shoot down the lane.
Left edge dips from a pothole, and I ride the line, cutting wide before pulling in sharp.
The rear twitches—tiny—but the traction holds.
I adjust the clutch barely a breath too late, feel the delay ripple through the frame. Fix it. Recalibrate. Drive.
The others jockey hard, one scraping too close on my right, probably trying to intimidate. His grille flashes, high beams flicked on. Idiot.
I pivot inward, slice him off, cut the angle so tight he has to back off or clip a barrel. I don’t check mirrors. Just calculate. Every curve, every shift point, every inch of road under me, I feel it. I anticipate.
That part of me doesn’t need therapy. Doesn’t need to talk it out. It just knows.
Luca would’ve hated this. All the noise. The risk. He liked clean systems, perfect symmetry. But there’s a part of me that wonders if he would’ve come anyway, stood at the edge of the crowd and thrown his hands up with a grin.
Or maybe he’d be next to me, laughing his ass off in the passenger seat, telling me I was taking the corners too clean.
I hit the final turn wide, let the tail end swing a little longer than needed.
A flash of Rocco’s face barrels into my head again—his mouth, open and wanting, when he pulled me against the wall.
That look in his eyes, the second before he kissed me.
Like he was going to break something. Or like he already had.
I slam back into gear and floor it.
The final stretch disappears under me. The finish line is barely marked, just a stack of crates and two cones where people stand filming. I cross it in third.
My hands are shaking. Legs stiff. Pulse jackhammering.
But I’m breathing. Deep and full. Everything's sharper. Clearer. My fingers flex and unclench on their own.
I let the car coast down the far lot. No victory lap. No crowd-waving. I pull into the shade of a half-collapsed structure and kill the engine. It sputters once and dies.
I sit there, helmet in my lap, sweat soaking into the collar of my shirt. I let the sound of revving engines and cheers fade out behind me.
Still got it. Still mine.
And no one gets to take that away. Not the Ferranos. Not the ghosts. Not Rocco with his hands and his heat and his too-familiar hurt.
I reach into the glovebox for a bottle of water and down half of it in one pull. I breathe through my nose and blink hard. The muscle in my left calf twinges from the downshifts. Worth it.
Out there on the pavement, the world made sense again. Not because I won. Not because I proved anything.
Because for five minutes, I wasn’t trapped inside my own head. I was the one in control.
Just me and the road.
I’m still coasting on fumes and focus when I reach the edge of the lot.
My helmet’s off, clutched under one arm, sweat dripping from my temple.
The crowd noise stays behind me, stretched out in layers—engines roaring, bass lines vibrating through dented hoods, someone shouting about the next lineup.
It’s a chaotic pulse, but it fades the closer I get to my car.
And then I see him.
A man leans against the hood like he owns it. He doesn’t move when I approach. Just shifts his weight, slow and smug. Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Sharp pants, too clean for this place. He’s not here for speed.
He’s here for me.
“Nice run,” he says, head tilted just enough to catch my eyes. “Falcone. You still drive like a ghost.”
I stop three feet away, body cooling fast. I drop the helmet onto the hood beside his elbow. Hard enough to make a point.
“Wrong name,” I say.
He grins. Not wide. Just enough to show he enjoys being a step ahead. “You sure? ’Cause the price on your head says otherwise.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t move.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded square of glossy paper. Tosses it at the car. It lands photo-side up.
There I am. Mid-race. Face visible. Focused. Barely blurred.
The shot’s clean.
“Found that on a ledger two weeks ago,” he says, tapping the corner of the image. “Didn’t believe it at first. They said you were dead. Buried under fire and bullshit.”
He steps away from the car, casual like we’re old friends meeting at a bar.
“Then I saw you tonight.”
I take one step back. My right hand settles near the loop of my jeans where I keep a knife tucked, just in case. My pulse doesn’t spike. It just flattens, thins out into clean lines.
“You gonna make a move,” I ask, “or just talk like a clown?”
His smile fades, just a fraction. But he doesn’t look worried.
“Clara,” he says. “That’s what they call you now, yeah? In the shop. With your new face and new friends.” He leans in, and I don’t flinch. “But it’s still you.”
Before I can shift my stance, I feel it.
A presence behind me. Quick steps. The scrape of shoes on gravel. Then an arm slams across my collarbone, yanking me backward.
My body acts before my brain catches up.
I twist left. Drop my weight. Drive my elbow straight back into the gut behind me—no hesitation.
It connects hard. The guy grunts, and I whip around, slamming a second elbow into his nose.
Blood sprays, bright and hot. He stumbles.
I follow it up with a knee that crushes his side.
He crumples with a wet wheeze, hitting the ground like trash.
I stay loose. Ready.
“Next time, don’t lead with your chin,” I mutter, stepping over him.
Javier Cruz just watches. Amused. Like he brought a dog to a knife fight and enjoyed the show.
“She bites,” he says, his voice light. “I should’ve warned them.”
Another figure steps up from behind a car. Taller. Sharper shoulders. Tattoo on his neck, some cartel symbol I don’t recognize. He pulls a knife, curved and stained from past use.
I square up.
He’s not the kind that tests first. He lunges.
I brace to take him.
But he never reaches me.
Rocco cuts through the lot like a blade himself. No warning, no noise. He’s just suddenly there—between me and the thug—his own knife already flashing once, twice. Efficient. Precise.
The man drops. Gurgling.
Rocco barely looks down.
He turns to me, knife still loose in his grip, eyes hard but alert.
“You good?” he asks, voice steady.
“I had him,” I say, not breaking eye contact.
“Sure you did.”
We both glance toward Javier—but he’s already walking away, casual as ever, weaving through clusters of drivers and gearheads, vanishing into the chaos.
“Loyal dog,” Javier calls back to Rocco, lifting two fingers in a mock salute. “She better be worth it.”
Rocco doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on the direction Javier took, then shifts back to me.
“We need to talk,” he says.
I cross my arms. “You here to scold me? You gonna do that thing where you lean on a wall and look disappointed?”
“This isn’t a game.”
I step toward the driver’s door. “And you’re not my handler.”
I yank it open, climb in.
He steps closer. One hand on the roof, leaning in slightly, not enough to trap me but enough to make it hard to ignore him.
“I saw the photo,” he says. “He’s not guessing. He knows.”
“No shit.”
“You think racing helps keep you hidden? Half of Miami just saw your face. What happens next time?”
“I drive better,” I say, voice tight.
He doesn’t blink.
“Just drive. Just run. That’s all you’re good at, right?” he says. His voice isn’t angry. Just… flat. Like he’s tired of having to say it.
I don’t answer. I just turn the key, and the engine roars to life.
“You following me, Rocco?” I ask.
His eyes don’t waver. “Someone has to.”
I throw it into reverse and back out without warning. He steps back fast, hand off the roof. The tires squeal against the pavement. A few heads turn. One guy hoots.
I don’t look back.
The lot shrinks behind me in the rearview.
No one chases.
I hit the road and let the car fly forward. The buildings blur. Streetlights flash past in sharp rhythm. My grip on the wheel’s too tight. My right leg’s bouncing with tension I haven’t burned off.
Javier Cruz.
He’s real. And he’s not just sniffing around. He’s got names. Pictures. Timing.
That bounty is still active. Maybe it never went cold at all.
I replay it in my head—his grin, the way he said Falcone like it tasted familiar. He wasn’t fishing. He was making a point. I’m not buried deep enough. I’ve been sloppy.
And Rocco?
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t keep being here.
But he was.
He showed up. No warning. Knife ready. Like he knew exactly how close the danger was getting. Like he expected it to find me.
Maybe it’s already found him, too.
The car’s quiet now except for the hum under my seat. I adjust my grip, lean back slightly, breathe through my nose.
I’m slipping.
Not because I couldn’t take that guy down. I could. I did. But because I hesitated. I let myself race. Let myself believe I could breathe out here.
It’s not breathing if you’re being watched.
Still.
I’m here. I’m not bleeding. I’m moving.
Still moving.
That’s what matters.
I don’t stop until I see the old overpass just outside the city grid, where the trucks park overnight and no one asks questions. I kill the lights and coast in behind a row of trailers. Engine off.
I sit in the dark for a while, windows cracked. Let the heat bleed out. Let the sweat dry on my back.
My hands finally stop shaking.
The fight’s over. For now.
But the war just clocked in.