Chapter 22 – Rocco
I walk beside Chiara under the red glow of the Black Anchor Bar’s neon sign. The letters buzz like an insect caught in a jar, flickering over a cracked sidewalk. The bar’s door hangs open just enough for a thin ribbon of light to spill into the night.
When I step inside, the smell hits me immediately: stale whiskey, damp wood, a sharp tang of cigarette ash.
Empty glasses line the shelves behind the bar, and a thick layer of dust coats the drink rail.
No renovations have been done in decades.
With each step, my boots creak on warped floorboards.
I scan the room: regulars pressed close to their tables, heads bent over glasses.
A hulking man in a corner booth stares at the floor while a scratchy blues track warbles from the jukebox.
Their faces stay motionless—eyes on us just long enough to register our presence, then back to their drinks.
Chiara walks in front of me, chain hidden beneath her hoodie, but I catch the flash of metal at her throat.
She moves confidently, every step deliberate.
I follow closely, hand hovering near my pistol.
We approach the bar. Behind it, Gino stands with a bald head tattooed up his neck, arms folded over a round belly.
Next to him, Larez wipes a counter rag across a glass, tall frame hunched, eyes narrowing as soon as he spots Chiara and me.
Both of them used to run with Ferrano. Now they are obstacles.
Chiara leans against the bar, lips pressed in a line. I slide onto the stool beside her, watching Gino and Larez carefully. Chiara’s voice is calm as she says, “Two shots of whiskey.”
Gino raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Larez pours slowly, setting the glasses before us with a metallic click. Chiara ignores hers. I pick up mine and sip, tasting sharp alcohol. I set the glass back down.
“We’re not here to drink,” Chiara says quietly. The jukebox shifts to another song—slow, mournful country that fills the air with tension.
Larez leans forward and spits on the floor. “So I heard,” he says. “Ferrano’s ledger is burned. Marco’s dead. Javier’s dead. You and that hellhound of yours two ‐ step through ghost stories now.”
I feel disgust coil in my gut, but I keep my voice steady. “Ferrano is still alive. We are here for Dino Ferrano.”
Gino snorts, leaning so close his bald head almost brushes mine. “Dino? You think you can waltz in here, asking for Dino like he’s your great ‐ uncle’s lost prodigy? You’re out of your mind.”
I do not flinch. I meet his gaze evenly. “He is in this city. We have a right to find him.”
Larez chuckles, full of disdain. “You have nothing—no proof, no allies.” He glances toward a locked drawer behind Gino, where cash and receipts sit. “Why should we help you?”
Chiara’s hand tightens around the glass of whiskey.
She sets it down without touching the liquid.
I see her jaw twitch. I clear my throat.
“Because if you don’t, we’ll leave this place in ashes.
” My voice is low but full of promise. Gino’s grin vanishes for a fraction of a second. Larez’s nostrils flare.
After a tense beat, Gino nods. “Fine,” he says. “You want Dino? You’ll have to earn it.” He jerks his head toward a side hallway behind the bathroom door. “Go there. Ask for the truth. If you survive, you might get your clue.”
I stand, motioning for Chiara to follow. She rises and they cross the bar together, weaving past booths where no one dares stop us. The bartender—a silent man in a black vest—polishes glasses without ever looking up.
We reach the bathroom door. Gino calls out, “Tell him Dino sends you,” then throws a single key across the bar. It lands in my palm with a cold thunk. Gino and Larez lock eyes on me until Chiara and I turn away.
We move through the narrow hallway, walls painted gray, scuffed by fists and shoulders over the years.
A single fluorescent bulb flickers above us.
At the end of the corridor stands a locked steel door.
The key in my pocket feels heavier now. I slide it into the lock and click it open. The door groans as it swings inward.
Inside is a cramped space lined with filing cabinets and a single desk under a swinging bulb.
The air is still, as though this room rarely sees company.
Atop the desk lies a small pile of firearms, a few phone chargers, and a single flip phone sitting facedown.
Next to it, a desktop computer hums, but its monitor is dark.
I signal to Chiara. She closes the door behind us.
The click sounds louder than it should in the silence.
Chiara slides to her knees beside the desk and plugs the phone charger into an outlet.
I sweep my eyes across the filing cabinets, labels handwritten across their drawers: “Bank Accounts,” “Shell Companies,” “Safehouses,” and “DINO OPERATIONS.” The last one is what we need.
Chiara taps the side power button of the flip phone. The screen lights up with a GPS lock graphic and coordinates that shift every few seconds. Underneath it scrolls a small map displaying a blinking dot labeled “Dino Ferrano.” Chiara’s eyes widen. She catches my gaze and nods.
“Got it,” she whispers.
I lean forward and flip open the phone. The map updates in real time. Dino’s position is somewhere less than a mile away, moving slowly, as if he doesn’t expect us.
Chiara closes the phone and tucks it into her pocket. I move to the computer and press the power button. The screen flickers, and a login prompt appears: “Enter Authorized Passcode or Swipe Keycard.” The keycard Gino tossed to me glints in my hand. I swipe it across the reader. The screen unlocks.
A directory appears: “FERRANO NETWORK,” “JAVIER LEDGER,” “MARCO CONFESSIONS,” “DINO OPERATIONS.” I click “DINO OPERATIONS.” A list of files populates the screen: “SAFEHOUSE COORDINATES,” “TRANSPORT LOGS,” “FERRANO CONTACTS.” The only file highlighted is “LAST KNOWN SAFEHOUSE.” I double ‐ click it.
A single address pops up: an abandoned factory on 18th Street, timestamped six hours ago.
I lean back in the metal folding chair, muscles trembling. My ribs throb from yesterday’s fight. My jaw still echoes the Shadow’s punch. Yet seeing Dino’s safehouse confirms everything we’ve risked. Chiara watches me, breathing hard even now.
“He was here,” I say. “But he’s gone.”
Chiara nods. “Tomorrow, we find him.”
I print the address and tuck the paper into my pocket. I close the desk drawer and leave the computer running—no point shutting it down. We need to move before anyone realizes what’s missing.
I stand, and Chiara joins me. The room feels smaller now, its stale air thick with tension. We back out through the steel door, leaving filing cabinets and scattered papers behind.
In the main room, the jukebox has switched tracks again—this time a slow country lament.
The bar’s smoky haze feels heavier. Gino and Larez’s bodies are gone.
The bartender continues polishing glasses as though nothing happened.
No sirens have arrived. Patrons sip their drinks, oblivious to what we just did.
Chiara flips the sign to “Closed.” We slip out into the alley behind the bar. The night air slaps my face, damp with a hint of salt. I flip open the phone again. Dino’s dot pulses. It points us down the alley, then to the right, toward dim storefronts.
Chiara’s engine hums to life. I slide into the passenger seat and set the phone on the dashboard. The GPS tracks Dino’s location with surprising accuracy—one blink per second on the small map.
Ribs still burning, I tuck the phone into my jacket pocket. My hand rests on the knife at my thigh, a reminder that there is no turning back.
Chiara pulls away from the curb, tires splashing shallow puddles. The streetlights cast long shadows as we merge onto Harbor Street.
“Are you okay?” she asks, voice low.
I breathe deeply and nod. “I will be.” I keep my eyes on the road. The map on the phone gives us the route: twenty blocks to 18th Street, then one block east.
Chiara glances at my ribs. “Still hurts?”
I wince, pressing my hand against the bandage. “Every step,” I admit. “But I can’t lose him now.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “We finish this tomorrow,” she says.
I nod. “Tomorrow.” I close my eyes for a moment as the city lights blur past. By dawn, we will be at Dino’s factory. The hunt will end once and for all.
I reopen my eyes and watch Harbor Street’s glow fade behind us. The road ahead is clear. We have what we need: a blinking dot on a screen and a promise to finish what we started. The Black Anchor Bar is already behind us, its neon sign flickering out in the early hours.
Chiara shifts in the driver’s seat. I grip the edge of the seat, bracing for what comes next. My heart pounds, but for the first time in days, I feel something else: certainty.
We don’t run. We move fast, cutting through side streets, weaving past alleys and fenced lots, our steps quick and deliberate, a rhythm we’ve perfected since going underground.
The sirens fade behind us, tangled in someone else’s chaos, leaving only the sound of our footsteps and Chiara’s breathing beside me—quick, steady, alive.
The borrowed apartment is three blocks away, a shadow in the dark, no lights, no neighbors stirring. It’s above a shuttered shop, its rusted gates locked tight, the security camera dangling uselessly, wires exposed.
I jam the key into the lock, push the door open, and usher us inside, keeping the lights off, the darkness our shield.
Chiara’s bag hits the floor by the door with a dull thud. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, just moves into the room, stopping at the kitchen counter.
Her hands grip the edge, knuckles white, her hoodie half-zipped, sweat glistening along her collarbone, catching the faint streetlight seeping through the blinds. I lock the door, check it twice, and the click of the bolt is sharp in the silence.