Chapter 13 – Chiara
Gulls wheel overhead, their cries echoing off brick walls.
The alley behind the Edgewater garage is slick from dawn’s last storm.
Pavement shines with oil and rainwater, and every step we take sloshes in shallow puddles.
Trash drifts in corners, half-crushed cans leaking stale beer.
Sea-salt humidity clings around me like an unwelcome guest.
Rocco drags Sal Ferrano behind him by the zip-tied wrists. We had gone to the safe house to retrieve him earlier. Sal’s shirt is torn across the collarbone, bruises darkening his skin. His boots scrape on concrete, sparks of pain flickering when the ties tighten. Rocco’s grip never falters.
Sal coughs, spitting blood. “Classy,” he croaks. “Even now.”
I step forward and point. “Sit him there. I want him looking at garbage when he talks.”
Rocco stops, nods once, and eases Sal down beside a dented dumpster. Sal lands with a grunt, one bound wrist gouging his arm. He stares at me, eyes bloodshot, head lolling.
I crouch, pinch his chin so he can’t turn away. My boots sink into grit. His stubble scratches my palm.
“Why?” I ask, voice low enough to keep my words private. “Why’d you do it?”
He swallows, rattling breath. “Money,” he spits. “What else?”
His answer lands with a hollow ring. I rise to my full height. Crushing anger burns behind my ribs. He made me into prey. This time, I bite first.
I back up, coil my fist, then punch him across the face. His nose cracks again. He slumps forward, cheek hitting the dumpster’s metal edge. I lean in, voice rough.
“You sold me,” I say. “Like a fender you couldn’t flip.”
Rocco watches, stern but still. His gun rests low across his forearm. He never intervenes at first, letting me drive my fists into second-hand cars and old betrayals. Then he speaks.
“He’s not worth your knuckles,” Rocco says.
I wipe blood from my lip with the back of my hand. My knuckles ache—just what I wanted. “He’s worth my scars,” I say, nodding to my bruised arm. “And my story.”
Sal snorts, air bubbling through broken nostrils. “Ferrano’s little princess, finally fighting her own war,” he mocks.
I flex my fingers and punch again. This time, I land one on his ribs. He gasps, which almost sounds like a laugh. “Not anymore.”
Rocco steps forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Insistent. “Enough,” he says. “Don’t become him.”
I shake him off, stepping back into a pool of grimy water. My breath is ragged, chest pounding. Around us, night is giving way to dawn, but danger hasn’t given way. It lingers in the muggy light.
“He made me this,” I hiss, finger jerking toward Sal.
Rocco’s expression tightens. He raises a hand. “Then let’s finish this your way—but clean.”
I narrow my eyes at Sal. The garbage-lined alley, the dumpster’s rust stains, the graffiti tagging crime’s corners—it’s all background noise. Sal is center frame in my head, and every second he breathes is a lie.
A crunch of gravel stops me. My heart flips. Tires? No. A single car door. Steps. Rocco goes still, stance shifting between me and the alley entrance.
I glance over my shoulder. The alley’s empty. No headlights. But the sound came from out front. Rocco whispers, “Get behind me.”
I back up until my shoulder brushes the building’s damp brick. Rocco positions himself between me and wherever that noise came from. Sal’s head is slumped, face toward the dumpster. He looks finished, but he’ll live to betray again if we let him.
I draw my knife—smooth, familiar metal—and crouch once more. Rocco’s presence at my back makes me breathe easier. “You got my back?”
He nods, jaw set. He checks our perimeter: doorways, fire escapes, shadows. I turn back to Sal.
“Knew about those races,” I say, voice level. “Knew every one I ran.” I slip the knife’s blade between two zip ties. They split with a soft pop . Sal shifts at the sound, eyes opening. He sees the blade and drops back.
I cut the second tie and step aside. He tries to rise but crumples onto his knees. I kick him forward until his torso slumps on the dumpster’s lip. He groans into rotten cardboard.
“You want to lie again?” I ask. “Tell me how deep you buried me?”
He coughs, blood flecking his lips. Rocco moves forward and flips Sal’s head so he’s looking at me. Dull metal meets broken glass. I glare without mercy.
Sal’s mouth twitches. “I—we all thought you were gone.”
My hand curls into a fist again. Rocco grips my wrist and pulls me back.
“Enough,” he says softly.
I lower my fist. My heart hammers. He lifts Sal’s chin again. Sal stares into my eyes, dark and raw. I tighten my fingers around my knife, but I don’t lash out.
Instead, I kneel beside Sal, close enough to feel his sweat. I press my free hand under his chin, tilting his head. I look for any hint of regret in his eyes. Instead, I see dread.
He swallows once. “I sold your name,” he whispers. “I sold it because they paid. They paid for every step, every race. I thought you were dust. I thought it was safe.”
His voice cracks. I taste his fear. I swallow the last spark of mercy.
He’ll live. Enough to fix this.
I stand. Rocco stays kneeling behind me, scanning the alley.
“Come on,” I say to Sal. “You’re going to tell us how to reach them.”
Sal’s head bows. He looks at Rocco, then at me. My gaze holds him in place, unforgiving.
“Okay,” he admits. “Javier’s men—they moved through Bayfront. They’re hitting drop points at sunrise. If you want to find Javier, you go through that network.”
I nod twice. Rocco stands. He grabs Sal under his arms and hauls him up. Sal limps forward, leaning on Rocco.
I flick the knife closed and slip it into my back pocket. The alley’s gravel crunches under boots as we head toward the garage door.
With every step, the past fades a fraction. Ahead, a new fight waits. But I walk ready—scarred, angry, and certain.
The dawn light’s only just creeping into the alley when a black luxury car slides to a stop at its mouth. Exhaust hisses. The engine cuts. The passenger window rolls down in one smooth motion. I press my back against the damp brick and grip Rocco’s sleeve.
Javier Cruz steps out. Silk shirt open at the throat, designer jeans, a grin that reeks of confidence.
“Falcone,” he says, voice casual. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”
My response comes cold. “Still trying to grow a real pair, I see.”
He tilts his head, his smile widening. “I brought friends this time.”
Two more cars rumble to a stop behind him. Bullets of steel glint in the barrels aimed our way.
I glance over at Sal’s body. His chest heaves once, twice, then stills. Blood seeps through his shirt. His eyes are blank.
Sal tries to crawl, hands scrabbling at the concrete. “Javier—help me!” he begs.
Javier lifts his pistol, aims, and fires.
The shot echoes off the walls. Sal’s head jerks back. A bubble of blood blossoms at his lip. He gurgles, his body folding. His blood pools in the gutter.
My heart stops. I can’t move at first. Then I feel Rocco’s hand on my arm, urging.
“Run,” he says.
I tear away from Sal and sprint behind a stack of wooden crates. Rocco follows closely. My boots slap wet concrete; my lungs burn.
Gunfire cracks. Javier’s men pour rounds into the alley. Splinters fly from the crates. I dodge, crouch, and Rocco fires back. One bullet grazes a thug’s arm, throwing him into a pile of trash.
He curses and swings his pistol wildly. A round smacks overhead, throwing down a chunk of peeling paint.
Rocco grabs my hand. “We’ll break left. You take the ledger. I cover.”
I slip the battered notebook from my jacket and tuck it under my arm. Sal’s betrayal, his final moments, the names of his buyers—they’re all in here. It’s my map to Javier. And now, to Sal’s end.
“He just murdered him,” I whisper, breath ragged.
“He’ll do worse to you if you hesitate,” Rocco replies.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip. My chain brushes his chest as we lean around the crates. My hand tightens on the ledger. Anger sharpens my vision.
“He dies next,” I say.
“Yeah,” Rocco agrees. “But not today.”
We slide through a narrow gap between two containers, bullets pinging the metal behind us. My shirt sticks to my back. My shoes skid in puddles of oil and blood.
I race down a back street lined with dumpsters and discarded crates. Rocco covers every inch with his gun, eyes jittering across shadows. I move as fast as I can, clutching the ledger to my chest.
A shout rings out: “You always run, Falcone!”
Javier’s voice carries on the wind. I don’t look back.
“And you always miss,” I call back without turning.
The alley stretches ahead—a dead end at first light. I skid to a halt against a corrugated metal door. Rocco slows beside me, gun still raised.
I lean against the wall, sliding down until I’m seated on damp concrete. He stands over me, chest rising and falling. I press my hand to my temple—there’s bruising where my arm hurt earlier. I swallow, trying to steady my breath.
“That was my last secret,” I say, voice hollow. “Sal dying…that was the last lie he told.”
Rocco lowers his weapon, but doesn’t relax. He kneels, close enough that I feel his presence anchoring me in place. He reaches out and takes the ledger from my hands, flipping through pages by touch.
“It’s ours now,” he says. His voice is firm.
I nod. “No more hiding.”
He tucks the ledger under his arm. “No more lies.”
We rise together. Behind the metal door, the city’s rumble begins—delivery trucks, distant sirens, gulls screaming as they wheel above.
I press my palm against the rough metal. It’s cold. I turn to Rocco.
“What’s next?” I ask.
He meets my gaze, lips set. “We find Javier’s drop points. We cut off his money. Then we finish him.”
I nod again. The thread of fear unravels, replaced by something sharper: purpose. I pull my chain out from under my shirt. It glints in the half-light. I let it rest against my palm, feel its cold weight.
Rocco watches. “You ready?”
I smile once. A small, fierce twist of lips. “Let’s go make him miss me.”
He holsters his gun. We step past one another, out of the alley, and onto the street. Dawn’s light is spilling over the rooftops now—gunmetal turning to steel, then to gold. We move forward into that light, ledger in hand, scars on our bodies, promise in our stride.