Chapter 11 – Chiara
My palms are slick on the ledger’s pages.
The safe room is too small, the bulb overhead swinging just enough to cast crooked lines across the cot and shelves.
I sit on the edge of the thin mattress, knees braced apart, ledger spread open on my lap.
Every time I look at that entry—Falcone, Chiara – status: confirmed alive—my vision narrows, and I taste betrayal in my mouth.
I trace my finger along the inked line, the words punched into my head a thousand times over. I trusted one man. He sold me. I kissed another. He saw me. I close the binder and tuck it tightly against my ribs, as though that keeps the betrayal tucked away, too.
A low hum of electricity flickers above; the bulb sputters, then steadies.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, head bowed.
My thoughts spiral: Sal’s ledger, Sal’s looped handwriting, Sal’s betrayal.
I feel a wrench tighten in my gut. If I could stand, I’d tear him apart with my bare hands.
I clutch a wrench—rust at the edges—from the workbench stacked near the cot.
In my hand, it feels like leverage: a slab of cold metal that might give me the moment of weakness I need to end him.
The door hinges creak before I even hear footsteps. My breath catches. I don’t move my head; I just twist, wrench raised. My muscles lock.
Rocco steps inside, boots scraping the concrete just beyond the threshold.
He closes the door behind him and stands silent for a moment, shoulders heavy.
His gun hangs low at his side, angled down, not pointed at me.
Relief and dread slam into my chest at once.
He’s not alone, but it’s not the man I want to see.
“Chiara,” he says gently, as though I might dissolve into shards if he speaks too harshly. His eyes flick to the wrench in my hand, then to the ledger pressed against my chest.
I let the wrench fall, metal thudding on the floor. The binder slips to the mattress, pages fluttering. I push to my feet, knees shaky but determined.
My eyes narrow as I rise from the cot. “Where is he?”
Rocco steps forward, voice steady. “He’s in the safe house, bound against the far wall. Bruised, but alive.”
I step forward until I’m inches from him. “And?”
He meets my gaze. His face is drawn, with dark circles under his eyes, jaw clenched. “He’s bruised. Broken ribs, shallow breathing. He’ll survive.”
I taste bile. Broken ribs. He’s alive. For now.
I snatch the ledger from the cot and hold it at arm’s length, shaking. “He wrote my death,” I rasp. “He framed me. He got me declared dead.”
Rocco’s shoulders sag. He moves closer, but I back away—anger and pain pooling behind my ribs. My thumb brushes the entry: “Falcone, Chiara—confirmed alive.” Every word spells out his treachery.
“I trusted him,” I whisper. “He was the only father I had. He taught me how to grease engines, how to keep my gaze steady when danger came. He gave me a name.”
My voice fails. I close my eyes and breathe. A storm rages in my chest. I want blood. I want vengeance.
“Chiara—” Rocco begins, his voice low.
I cut him off. I raise the wrench until it hovers in line with his temple. “Tell me where he is,” I demand. “So I can kill him.”
Rocco’s eyes flick to the heavy wrench in my hand. A flash of pain crosses his face—compassion, regret. He reaches out but doesn’t touch. “He’s not worth it,” he says quietly.
I laugh, low and rough, the sound more broken than I feel. “He sold me to them. He said I was a product. I was a girl he took into his home. He declared me dead so they could take me in my place.”
Rage surges. I step closer, wrench shaking. “I should kill him.”
Rocco inhales, then speaks with careful calm. “You can,” he says, voice heavy. “You could crush him right now and end it.”
My grip on the wrench tightens until my knuckles whiten. My vision tunnels. Every lie, every stolen moment of peace, erupts inside me.
He doesn’t flinch. His eyes are steady, unwavering. “But you won’t,” he says. “Because you’re better than that.”
I blink. I stare at him—this man who stands between me and the only real justice I can imagine. “Better?” My voice trembles. “How can I be better?”
Rocco exhales, dropping his gaze to my shaking hands.
Then he lifts his head, meets my eyes. “Because killing him won’t fix you.
It won’t bring back the life he tried to steal from you.
It won’t undo the damage. It’ll just make him one more body on the ground—and you’ll carry the weight of that, too. ”
I taste blood in my mouth—my own, I realize. My heart pounds. The wrench drops from my fingers and clatters against the concrete. I stare down at it as though seeing it for the first time.
Silence settles between us, heavy and charged. My chest heaves. I want to turn around and find Sal’s battered face, to spit in his broken mouth, but I know I can’t. Rocco’s right: killing him satisfies only the moment. But then what? I’d be no better than the men who made me prey.
Rocco steps forward, closing that sliver of space between us. He puts a hand on my shoulder—gentle, deliberate. It’s the first touch since I’d arrived here in this room, and it grounded me. I feel the tremor in his hand, too. He’s strained.
“Let it go for now,” he whispers. “Give yourself time to breathe. To heal. We need your mind sharp. We need you whole.”
I look at him, resistance flickering in my chest. My instincts scream to kill.
But as I meet his steady gaze, I feel my knees soften.
I think of Sal’s broken body left on the dock.
He’s begotten a war thicker than water in my veins, but right now, I feel the slip of exhaustion, sorrow, and every lie he told.
“I trusted him,” I repeat, voice taut. “He was everything to me.”
Rocco’s hand tightens on my shoulder, and he slides it up to cradle my jaw. His thumb brushes the side of my face—blood-dry and trembling. “I know,” he says. “I know how much it hurts.”
My vision blurs. I swallow, taste salt. “He thought I’d never come back.”
A tremor passes through me: grief, fury, and something deeper, like betrayal, carving a new shape inside. Rocco’s thumb wipes a drop of blood from my cheek. “But you did,” he says. “And now you’re here. Alive. You survived.”
I close my eyes. I shake against his hand. “I’m not that girl anymore.”
“You’re stronger,” he says. “Because you survived.”
I open my eyes and stare at the ledger in my hands. The pages feel thick—every name a thread in a web of violence. Sal’s handwriting rings across each line. I trace the entry: Falcone, Chiara—confirmed alive. My thumb presses into the paper. I close the binder.
“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” I whisper.
Rocco leans closer, voice softening. “You don’t have to forgive him. But you can survive him. And you can decide how to move forward.”
My breath trembles. I look up, meet his gaze. In his eyes, I see unwavering commitment—he’ll fight beside me, but he won’t make this choice for me.
My chest tightens. I close my fists around the binder, squeezing so hard the rings dig into my palms. I lower my head and breathe in slowly. When I look back at Rocco, my eyes are clear but red-rimmed.
“Okay,” I say, voice hushed. “I’ll wait.”
Rocco exhales, relief softening his features. He nods once. “Good.”
I take a step back toward the cot. I set the ledger beside a stack of blankets and run my fingers through my hair.
I taste sweat and blood and determination.
The wrench lies abandoned on the floor. Part of me aches to pick it up again, to make Sal pay right now, but another part welcomes this pause, however thin it might be.
Rocco walks to the door and leans against it, arms folded.
He watches me as I settle on the mattress again, ledger in my lap.
The lines of the room feel suffocating—bare walls, a single bulb, a cot too thin for rest. But here, at least, no one can get in without Rocco finding out.
For a moment, I sit in that fragile safety.
“Are you sure?” Rocco’s voice is quiet, but it carries across the small room.
I meet his eyes. I think of Sal’s pale face on the dock, dripping blood into rotten wood, and I taste iron on my tongue.
I think of every time I fought for my life, every race I won, every lie I told to stay alive.
“I’m sure,” I say. “Because if I kill him now, I lose my focus. I lose the chance to end this on my own terms. I lose me.”
Rocco tilts his head—a slight, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. Relief flickers in his eyes like dawn. “I’m proud of you,” he says quietly. “But don’t think I won’t let you at him later.”
I close the ledger and tuck it against my chest, feeling its weight settle. “I know.”
The door creaks as the lock clicks. Rocco straightens and moves back into the room. He crosses to the cot and sits beside me. His shoulder presses lightly against mine. The air between us hums with possibility—danger, yes, but also rare calm.
Outside, the storm has passed, but distant thunder still rumbles. The safe room feels like a bubble in the eye of chaos. Here, for now, I’m allowed to feel human—betrayed, angry, and still alive.
Rocco reaches for my hand and squeezes gently. I rest my head on his shoulder. My chest heaves, but the tightening in my gut loosens. The weight of the ledger presses against me: every page a promise of vengeance, every name a target. But tonight, I choose patience.
“I need to plan,” I whisper into the hush. “I need to know who else is on that list.”
Rocco nods, voice firm but gentle. “Tomorrow. We’ll go through it together. You’ll rest tonight.”
I inhale, tasting the sharp tang of metal on my tongue. My vision clears. “Thank you,” I murmur.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “You don’t owe me thanks,” he says. “You owe yourself a chance.”