Chapter 25 – Chiara
The sun’s barely clawing its way up, the sky a dull smear of blue bleeding into gray, the damp pavement outside the garage reflecting the weak light.
The air smells of last night’s rain, sharp and clean, a contrast to the restless half-sleep I managed.
The car engine hums behind me, steady and waiting, tuned to perfection for the road ahead.
I zip the duffel shut, pressing it into the trunk, tugging the strap once to secure it.
Inside, it’s just the essentials—tools, cash, burner phone, fresh clothes.
My Atlanta jacket, still carrying the faint scent of smoke, goes on top, a piece of me I can’t shake.
Rocco leans against the wall by the garage’s side door, hands in his pockets, legs crossed at the ankle, his posture casual but his eyes heavy with something unspoken.
He’s been standing there since I started loading the car, silent, unmoving, waiting without holding me here. It’s a quiet strength, and I love him for it—not pushing, not begging, just letting me be. But I’m not built to stay, and we both know it.
I close the trunk, the thud sharp in the early morning stillness. His eyes follow the motion, like it’s a verdict, a sentence we can’t appeal.
“You sure?” he asks, his voice low, tired but steady, no edge, just truth.
I don’t hesitate. “I have to be.”
My boots crunch on the wet gravel as I walk toward him, tiny splashes breaking the quiet, but they don’t touch the space between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying. He stays rooted, his gaze dropping to the Ferrano chain around my neck, glinting faintly in the dim light.
His hand lifts, the back of his fingers brushing the warm metal against my skin, a touch so light it sends a shiver through me.
I breathe in, the air cool in my lungs, and say it. “Don’t wait.”
His mouth twitches, a half-smile. “Can’t stop.”
Our eyes lock, the moment stretching long enough for the damp alley air to seep through my sleeves, chilling my skin.
I see the words he doesn’t say, the ones I feel too—a plea, a thread we both refuse to pull. I step into him, our bodies pressing chest to chest, no kiss yet, just the heat of him grounding me.
My cheek rests against his collarbone, my fingers sliding along his back, tracing the familiar lines of muscle through his shirt.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “For not making this harder than it already is.”
His arms wrap around me, strong and steady, pulling me closer. “I could,” he says, a teasing edge to his voice. “But I won’t. You were never mine to hold.”
I lift my head and kiss him, the contact deep, heavy with everything we can’t put into words. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but it’s not soft either—firm, hungry, a quick spark that ignites fast.
His hands press into my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me feel him, and my fingers slide into his hair, tugging lightly, pulling a low groan from his throat.
I pull back, just enough to catch my breath, and nod toward the garage door, my voice low, teasing.
“Come with me. One last time. Don’t make me drag you like I did in that blood-soaked garage.”
He chuckles, the sound rough and warm, his eyes glinting with memory. “You didn’t drag me anywhere, Chiara. I was the one pinning you to that hood.”
I smirk, stepping back, pulling him with me. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Inside, the garage is dim, the high windows letting in just enough gray light to see by.
The worktable, still littered with tools, shop rags, and an open socket set from when I rebuilt the engine last week, is my target. I shove half the mess aside with one arm, wrenches clattering to the concrete, and turn to face him, my pulse already racing.
I peel off my jacket, letting it drop to the floor, the motion quick but deliberate. My shirt follows, yanked over my head, exposing my bra, my nipples already hard against the thin fabric.
Rocco steps in, his mouth finding my neck, his lips hot and firm, kissing a path to my pulse point, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.
His fingers unhook my bra with practiced ease, like he’s done it a hundred times—maybe he has, in the lives we’ve lived together. The bra falls, my breasts bare, and he cups them, his thumbs circling my nipples, pinching lightly, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core.
“Faster than last time,” I tease, my voice breathy, my hands already working the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with quick, practiced flicks.
“You were all slow and sentimental on that hood.”
He laughs, low and rough, his chest rising under my hands as I push his shirt open, revealing the scar from the docks, a jagged reminder of his past.
“Sentimental? I had you screaming my name in ten seconds flat.”
“Keep dreaming,” I shoot back, shoving his shirt off his shoulders, my nails scraping his skin, leaving faint red lines.
He pulls off his belt, the buckle hitting the concrete with a thud, and I unzip my jeans, wiggling them down my hips, kicking them aside with my panties, leaving me bare, my pussy already wet, glistening in the dim light.
He shoves his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the tip slick with precum, and I lick my lips, the sight making my core clench.
He lifts me onto the worktable, the cold metal biting into my ass, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him close, his cock pressing against my inner thigh, hot and heavy.
His palms press flat against my back, pulling me forward, my breasts brushing his chest, the contact sending sparks through me.
“No foreplay bullshit,” I say, my voice sharp, teasing. “You took forever last time, licking me like you were writing a damn poem.”
He grins, his hands gripping my hips, positioning himself at my entrance. “You loved every second of that poem, Chiara.”
“Prove it,” I challenge, and he thrusts in, slow but deep, filling me in one smooth stroke, stretching me, the sudden fullness pulling a moan from my throat.
I hold my breath, my hands gripping the edge of the table, the metal creaking under us as he sets a steady rhythm, each thrust quick but precise, anchoring us in the moment.
His forehead presses to mine, our breaths mingling, hot and ragged, and I arch into him, my pussy clenching around him, dragging friction that makes him groan, low and guttural.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, his hand sliding into my hair, not pulling, just holding, his fingers tangled in the strands.
I lean back, bracing my hands behind me on the table, the angle letting him push deeper, his cock hitting that spot that makes my toes curl.
“Better than the hood?” I gasp, smirking through the pleasure, my legs tightening around him, urging him faster.
“Fuck the hood,” he growls, his thrusts picking up speed, the table rocking under us, tools clattering to the floor. I laugh, the sound cut off by a moan as he angles his hips, driving harder, the wet sound of our bodies filling the garage, mingling with my gasps, his grunts.
His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles, and I cry out, my hips bucking, the sensation pushing me toward the edge.
“Don’t you dare slow down” I pant, my nails digging into his shoulders, leaving marks, and he chuckles, his thumb pressing harder, his cock slamming into me, relentless, the pace quick and dirty, just what I need.
I reach down, cupping his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten, and he curses, his rhythm faltering, his control slipping.
“Chiara, fuck,” he groans, his voice raw, and I squeeze around him, my pussy pulsing, dragging him deeper.
I come hard, biting my lip to stifle the scream, my body trembling, my pussy clamping down on him, pleasure ripping through me in sharp, electric waves.
He’s right there with me, still thrusting, his cock buried deep, his mouth catching my moan in a messy kiss, his tongue plunging into my mouth, swallowing my sounds.
His hips jerk once, twice, and he comes, spilling inside me, hot and thick, his groan muffled against my lips, his hands tightening on my hips, holding me close.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, the table still under us, the garage quiet except for our ragged breaths. His head rests against my shoulder, his lips brushing my skin, and my fingers trace down his spine, slow and steady, grounding us both.
I pull back slightly, smirking, my voice teasing. “Quicker than last time, but you still owe me that poem.”
He laughs, the sound rough and warm, his hands still on my hips, reluctant to let go. “Next time, I’ll write you a fucking novel.”
I whisper, my voice soft but firm, “This doesn’t mean I’m staying.”
He exhales through his nose, his eyes meeting mine, steady and sure. “Didn’t ask you to.”
We slide off the table, pulling our clothes back on, the motions quick but not rushed, our bodies still buzzing from the heat of it.
I tug my jeans up, zipping them, the denim clinging to my thighs, and pull my hoodie on, the chain settling against my chest. He buttons his shirt, his belt clinking as he fastens it, and we stand there, the space between us charged but not heavy.
I grab the keys from the table, their jingle sharp in the quiet, and head for the garage door, my boots echoing on the concrete.
I nod, slipping through the door, the early light painting the lot outside in muted tones.
The car door creaks as I open it, shutting with a firm click.
The engine roars to life, tuned to perfection, and I shift gears, pulling out without looking back.
But I feel him, a steady presence in my spine, as I take the turn and head into the dawn.
The cold from the worktable is still in my spine. My limbs ache, not from the fight, but from the part of me I just gave back. Not because I had to—but because I wanted to. Because I meant it.
My hoodie slides over my arms. I tug the zipper up halfway. The fabric smells like the garage. Like him. Like me.
Behind me, Rocco sits on a low stool. Elbows on his knees, hands together. He watches me dress, but not like a man clinging to the last glimpse. He’s just…there. Present. Holding space, not gripping it.
My chain catches on the hem of my hoodie. I untangle it, slide it back around my neck, and let it rest against my chest.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
I grab the keys from the workbench and tuck them into my pocket. My fingers brush his when I pass. He doesn’t grab. I don’t stop.
Outside, the sun’s risen just enough to catch on puddles. They scatter light across the damp pavement like discarded glass. The engine’s still on, humming low, as if it’s ready to go before I am.
Rocco follows me out into the alley. He’s two steps behind, then beside me when I reach the car. I unlock the door, but I don’t get in yet.
The quiet between us isn’t heavy. It just is.
Then the screech hits.
Tires on asphalt.
The kind of sound that jerks your gut before your brain catches up.
A black sedan skids around the corner at the far end of the alley. Doors pop open.
One guy.
Big. Armed. Screaming already.
“Falcone!”
My body reacts before my mind catches.
The lug wrench sits in the trunk, tucked under the spare tire. I wrench it free and pivot as the guard charges.
I swing the heavy iron across his jaw. The crack echoes—teeth shatter. He staggers, dazed, pistol dropping from his hand.
Rocco is at my side in an instant, Glock leveled on the second thug slipping around the corner. I don’t hesitate. I bring the wrench down onto the first guard’s temple. Bone—and his life—splinter under the blow. He crumples to the wet pavement, blood pooling beneath his head.
Rocco squeezes off one shot. The second thug jerks in the shoulder, chest collapsing. He drops the shotgun with a clatter.
I’m breathing hard, grip tightening on the blood-slicked wrench. Rocco’s eyes are on me—steady, unflinching.
After a moment, I exhale. “Fuck.”
“Run?” he says, voice low.
I nod once. “Go.”
I yank the door open and drop into the seat. The engine’s smooth. The car shifts into gear like it knows what I need.
Rocco steps up beside me, hand on the door frame. He bends just enough for our eyes to meet.
His face is calm. A little blood on his shirt. But steady. Always steady.
He doesn’t give me a speech. Doesn’t ask me to stay.
“Chiara,” he says.
My name. One word. Final. Grounded.
“Rocco.”
I lean forward. Grip his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles.
Then I close the door.
I don’t look back until I’m halfway down the alley. When I do, it’s in the rearview mirror.
He’s still standing there, hands in his pockets. Watching.
But not chasing.
I drive.
Through the edges of the city, past the kind of places that still bear scars from men like Ferrano. Past the exit where I almost turned back last time. I don’t hesitate this time.
The road opens in front of me.
It’s not clean. It’s not easy.
But it’s mine.