Chapter 23 – Chiara
The sun barely clears the rooftops when I step into the garage. Even this early, the stale smell of oil and metal greets me like an old friend. This place is home now. My home is under these flickering fluorescent bulbs, surrounded by tools and half ‐ assembled engines.
I left Rocco asleep upstairs. He needed the rest. I came down to finish tightening the last bolts on the engine. It ran last night, smooth and powerful. I spent hours tuning timing and checking torque. Now all that remained was one chance to say goodbye to who I was when all of this began.
I pull off my grease ‐ stained gloves and toss them into the open drawer.
My palms are smeared with oil and yesterday’s blood.
I grab a rag and wipe my hands carefully.
The rag smells of machine grime and cheap coffee from the broken machine in the corner.
I glance at the counter where I used to write service invoices under the name Clara.
The folder is still there, bulging with old receipts no one else will ever need.
In the back of the garage, the radio hums. Someone left it on late last night. I don’t bother to turn it off. I nod once at the engine. “Done,” I say out loud, though I know Rocco will hear.
He stands by the rolling door, watching me. I stay where I am, breathing in the familiar air. He hasn’t asked why I needed to come down here. He just followed quietly, kept his distance. That is enough.
He steps forward, hands in jacket pockets. There is no pressure in his stance, just presence. “Car sounds good,” he says.
“Better than me,” I answer. My voice cracks slightly.
He almost smiles. The quiet stretches between us—not awkward, not heavy, just real.
A faint breeze from outside stirs the dust motes. “Stay,” he says after a moment.
I shake my head. “I can’t,” I reply. That one word carries everything he needs to hear: I must do this alone.
“You could stay,” he says quietly. “Just for now.”
I turn to face him fully. His steady gaze meets mine. He isn’t demanding. He’s simply here. “This isn’t about the war,” I say. “It’s about my past.”
He doesn’t flinch. He watches me with those calm eyes. “I understand,” he says.
My hand drifts to the chain at my neck, the friction through my shirt. The metal is warm. It once reminded me of who I used to be. Now it reminds me of everyone I could not save.
He steps closer, brushing his fingers against the chain through the fabric. His touch is gentle. He wants to anchor me, but I feel the need to slip away again.
“I’ll wait,” he says.
“Don’t,” I tell him firmly. It’s not cruelty. It’s honesty. I won’t drag him into the void of waiting. He deserves more than half measures.
I walk to the workbench and lift the backpack I stashed here months ago. The leather straps are cracked, but it will hold. I toss in tools, water, and a clean shirt. I leave the burner phone in the drawer. If I need to vanish again, I will do it cleanly.
Rocco remains by the engine, silent. The car idles with a soft growl, as if ready for one last drive. I fasten the backpack over one shoulder and look at him.
“I love you,” I say. “But I can’t stay tethered. I need to finish this without becoming a ghost again.”
He nods slowly. “I understand.”
“This doesn’t mean I’m leaving you,” I add.
“It means you’re choosing yourself first,” he says. “That’s enough.”
I brush my hand over his as I pass to the side door. We both feel it, but neither holds on.
Then, without warning, the door is flung open.
A man bursts in. He has Ferrano’s ink across his neck, and he aims a pistol at me. My heart races as I drop the bag, spin, and reach for the heavy spanner resting on the bench.
He shouts, “Falcone!”
I swing. The spanner cracks into his forearm with brutal force. Bone snaps. He drops the gun with a startled curse and stumbles backward. Before he can lift another weapon, Rocco moves in behind me.
One shot from his Glock ends it. The bullet penetrates the man’s chest. He crumples to the floor, hands out, eyes wide, twitching once or twice before still.
I stand over the body, wrench still in hand. Blood spreads across the concrete tiles, creeping toward the jack stands and oil pans. I breathe hard, adrenaline surging through tired muscles.
Rocco lowers his pistol and meets my gaze. “You all right?” he asks, voice steady.
“Better than him,” I rasp. My ribs throb from yesterday’s graze, but I barely feel it.
I step over the body and reach for my pack. Rocco moves beside me, not rushing.
The garage reeks of blood, a sharp, metallic tang that mingles with the familiar oil, rust, and dust, sinking into the concrete like it’s always belonged.
I sit on the hood of the car I rebuilt, the one that’s my ticket out of here, its cool metal grounding me as my chest heaves, my breathing heavy but starting to steady.
The body lies on the floor, a silent witness to what we’ve done. We’ll deal with it. Or we won’t. It’s done, and the quiet that follows is real, heavy, unbroken.
Rocco steps up behind me, his presence a steady warmth in the dim, flickering light of the garage’s single bulb.
His hands settle on my shoulders, not heavy, not possessive—just there, his thumbs rubbing slow, firm circles through my hoodie, easing the tension knotted in my muscles.
We don’t speak, don’t need to fill the space with words.
It’s already thick with everything we’ve left unsaid, everything we’ve survived.
“I thought we’d have longer,” I say, my voice low, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
He steps around to face me, his eyes tired but locked on mine, steady, unyielding, no begging, no demands—just that weathered patience that’s always been his. “There’s never time,” he says. “Not with people like us.”
He’s right. There’s always another body, another ghost with a badge, another name on a list. We live in countdowns, always running out of seconds.
I reach up, the back of my fingers brushing his face, his stubble scraping my skin, grounding me in the moment. Our mouths meet in a kiss that’s fragile, barely holding, not deep, not rushed—a goodbye pressed into lips that don’t want to let go, a quiet ache that burns in my chest.
He pulls back first, his breath warm against my lips. “You sure about this?”
I take a breath, let it out through my nose, the air sharp in my lungs. “No,” I admit, my voice steady despite the truth. “But I need to do it anyway.”
He nods, just once, a flicker of pain in his eyes, but he understands, even if it breaks him a little.
Then he steps between my legs, pressing in close, his body a wall of heat against the cool metal of the car.
His hands slide to my thighs, firm but not forceful, and I move without thinking, my fingers going to the buttons of his shirt. I don’t ask, don’t hesitate, just undo them one by one, the fabric parting to reveal his chest, the scar from the docks a jagged line just left of center.
My palm settles over it, feeling the faint pulse of his heart beneath, steady and strong.
He lifts me onto the hood with a low grunt, the metal creaking under my weight, and I spread my legs wider, letting him press closer, his hips slotting between my thighs, the bulge in his jeans already hard against my core.
My hoodie comes off next, peeled over my head and tossed to the concrete, leaving me in a tight tank, my nipples stiff against the fabric, visible in the dim light.
His hands move to my waist, tugging the tank up and off, my bra following, unhooked with a flick of his fingers, exposing my breasts, the cool air making my skin prickle.
I reach for his belt, the buckle clinking as I undo it, my fingers brushing the thick outline of his cock through his jeans, making him hiss.
He shoves his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum, and I wrap my hand around him, stroking slow and firm, my thumb swiping over the head, spreading the moisture, feeling him twitch in my grip.
My jeans are next, kicked to the side of the car, my panties following, leaving me bare, my pussy wet and aching, the scent of my arousal mixing with the blood and oil in the air.
He leans in, his forehead pressing to mine, our breaths mingling, hot and ragged.
“Don’t make this soft,” I whisper, my voice sharp, a challenge.
He huffs, a sound caught between a laugh and a groan. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he’s inside me, his cock thrusting in with one hard, full stroke, stretching me, filling me, the suddenness pulling a gasp from my throat.
His hands grip my hips, anchoring me to the hood, the metal creaking under us as he drives deep, not rushed but relentless, each thrust landing with a wet, rhythmic slap.
My fingers knot in his shirt, still half-on, buttons hanging open, and I pull him closer, my legs wrapping around his waist, my heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
“Fuck, Chiara,” he groans, his mouth moving to my neck, kissing, biting, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin just enough to make me moan, the sound raw and unexpected in the quiet garage.
I arch my back, my breasts pressing against his chest, the scar on his skin rubbing against mine, a reminder of what we’ve survived.
His hips roll, steady and hard, and I match him, my hips tilting to meet each thrust, my pussy clenching around him, hot and slick, the friction sending sparks through my core.
I slide a hand between us, my fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles as he fucks me, the added sensation making my breath hitch, my moans growing louder.
He grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away, and replaces it with his own, his thumb pressing against my clit, rubbing fast, then slow, driving me wild.
“Let me,” he growls, his voice rough, and I nod, my head tipping back, my hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, leaving red marks.