Chapter 26 – Rocco
I push open the garage door before dawn has full claim on the sky.
It lifts on cracked rollers, echoing off concrete walls, and I step inside.
A single bulb overhead sputters as I flip the switch.
It spots the oil-stained floor in a circle that barely reaches my boots.
Everything else stays half-hidden in shadows.
Behind me, the door thunks closed. I pause to catch the click of the lock. Safe. That one word hangs in my chest. It’s the only thing I can say aloud this morning.
Coffee in one hand, thermos in the other. I pour until the dark liquid hits the brim, then twist the cap down tight. The pot’s still warm on the bench. I leave it there, a reminder that something good can come from heat and pressure.
A cigarette waits in my jacket pocket. I clip it between my lips, slide a match across the striker, and light it. The match splinters in my fingers. I tap the ember against the concrete step and inhale. Smoke curls around my throat. A small comfort.
The radio kicks in next: a scratchy guitar riff, a voice singing about heartbreak and barroom lies. It’s classic rock—her station choice. When she was here, I let it play all day. Now it fills the empty space, and I let that be enough.
My first thought drifts to her name. Not like a question. Like a footprint left in mud. Chiara. I don’t say it. I just let the sound of it settle.
I set the thermos on the bench and step toward her tool drawer. It’s the third one down, still labeled in her neat block letters:
“Clara’s Tools”
I haven’t changed a damn thing. The Allen keys are lined up by size. The sockets sit in molded plastic trays. Everything’s in its place as if she’ll push through the door at any second, ask for the 10-millimeter wrench, and be on her way.
I slide the drawer open. The faint click reminds me of nights she spent here after I’d fallen asleep on a tire stack. She’d keep working until dawn painted the sky. I’d wake to find new notes scrawled on sticky pads: torque values, part numbers, deadlines. All in her clear script.
Her notes are gone, but the tape she used to stick them is still looped on a metal hook beside the drawer. I leave it there, coil of pale paper against chipped paint.
Atop the bench sits a busted transmission—my project since yesterday.
I pull it closer. It’s caked in grime, gears locked stiff from neglect.
I grip my torque wrench and grind the first bolt loose, listening to metal protest. Grease coats my fingers as I peel away plate covers, expose planetary gears and shims.
The work is honest. It doesn’t ask questions about why she left. It doesn’t remind me that two days have passed without a word.
A small, frayed leather loop catches my eye beneath the transmission housing. I lift it. A keychain, chipped at the edges, Luca’s bullet-casing charm dangling from it. I must have dropped it when I cleared the garage after she left.
I turn it over in my hand. The metal’s cool. I trace the indented lettering: the caliber stamped by her own hands. It reminds me of Luca—reminds me of every scar she earned and every vow she made along the way.
I don’t squeeze it. I don’t cry. I just breathe.
I clip the keychain to a nail above the bench, beside the bent alternator bracket she tossed in frustration last month. It belongs there with the scars we share.
“Safe,” I say, voice low against the hum of overhead lights. “That’s what matters.”
The shaker of my torque wrench rings out as I tighten a bearing housing. Each turn clicks the dial one notch. The hiss of escaping air from the pneumatic lines mixes with the radio’s chorus.
A knock stops me mid-turn. Metal on concrete, twice, urgent but not frantic.
I step back. Wipe grease on my jeans. The side door stands ajar. I move to it, wary but prepared. Through the gap, I see a man in a worn denim jacket, hat pulled low, hands stuffed in pockets.
“You open?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, voice even.
He steps inside, eyes darting around like he expects ghosts. The morning light hasn’t reached this corner yet, but he squints anyway.
“I got a Camry,” he says. “Back brakes gone. Rod’s busted too.”
I nod. “Leave it.”
He shifts his weight. “You the only one here?”
“Always was.”
He studies me like that could be bad news. Then he nods, pulls a single key from his pocket, taps the hood of his beat-up Corolla parked outside, and walks back into the alley without another word.
I watch him go. The door clicks shut behind him.
I return to the transmission. Place the housing cover back on. Tighten each bolt finger-tight before dialing to spec. Check the gear cluster aligns. The steel rings mesh like teeth.
I reach for an open rag and wipe oil off my knuckles. The radio sputters into static. I glance at the tuner: the station’s gone. I leave it there, letting the crackle fill the void.
Outside, a freight train rumbles somewhere beyond the fence. In here, nothing shifts but my hands, working parts back into motion.
I swap the socket for a breaker bar, test rotation. Gears spin free now. I press my palm to the housing, feel warmth from friction. Satisfied, I set the bar down.
Coffee’s gone cold, but I sip anyway. It tastes bitter, like regret and grit. I lean back, rest the thermos on my thigh, and exhale smoke.
Nothing changes when I look up. Chiara’s car is gone from the lot. No footprints in the gravel. The only track left is a smear of oil on the pavement where I tested a part last night.
Two days. No trace. I don’t mind. She meant to go.
I stand and stretch, muscles cracking. Then I cross to the shelf and grab a fresh rag. Wipe down the entire bench surface. Fold rags into a stack. Line up screwdrivers by handle color. I reset everything to how she left it, even though she won’t be back to see it.
A memory surfaces: her fingertips tracing bolt heads as she taught me clutch alignment. She said a man in this life needs one constant—something he returns to when the rest falls apart.
I look at my tools and nod. This is mine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. No numbers matter right now. Not until I’m ready.
The shop clock above the door ticks over to eight. I flip the pneumatic line off and unplug the compressor. Its hiss dies out.
I take a last drag of the cigarette and stub it out in the metal tray by the door.
I slide the side door open for good measure. Let a shaft of sunlight strike the floor. Dust motes drift in and catch for a moment, then settle.
I step outside to see if that Camry’s here. Maybe I’ll start on the brakes. Maybe I’ll tune the transmission for the road ahead. Either way, I’ll be here—wrench in hand, coffee in cup, shadows watching.
I lock the door behind me, but it feels less like closing something and more like opening space. Out there is a world of roads and memories, loss and choice.
In here, steel doesn’t break.
I’m midway through realigning a front axle when the service door slams behind me. My shirt is soaked with sweat and grease. I torque the final nut, then back off the wrench and let the axle settle into place. Every gear, every bearing spins true again. It’s a kind of order I can live by.
A rough voice cuts through the hum of the compressor. “Damiani!”
I pivot, knife already in hand. He didn’t tiptoe. He kicked the door open. One of Ferrano’s stragglers stands in the center of the bay, chest heaving. He’s got a pistol in his right hand, barrel aimed at my stomach.
His boots are black with oil. His jacket is ripped at the shoulder. He locks eyes with mine as if he expects an apology.
Before he can finish his threat, I let go of the wrench. It sails across the floor, clanging against a toolbox, and catches his attention. He takes a half step forward.
I close the distance in two strides. The knife’s edge finds his gut as he raises his gun. He tries to twist away, but I’m already on him. He drops the pistol. I catch his arm and flip him forward onto the bench. Tools clatter off the metal top.
We struggle. His boots skid. I drive the knife deeper. His breath rattles. Blood sprays across the concrete, arcs toward the wall. He gurgles once, then goes still.
I stand, chest heaving. I ease the blade free. He’s limp against the bench, blood pooling beneath him like ink.
I step back and look down. Even after all this, violence still surprises me.
“You should’ve stayed dead with the rest,” I say, voice flat.
I wipe the blade on his jacket, then sheath the knife. My hands are stained. I don’t rinse yet.
I cross to the supply corner and pull bleach from the shelf. Mopping bucket, water, rag. I pour bleach into the water until the solution foams. Then I dip the mop, press out the excess, and scrub the pool of blood from the floor.
Each stroke lifts a layer of what happened. I work until the concrete looks new again. I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. This floor is my responsibility. It’s how I turn violence back into work.
By afternoon, the body’s gone. I haul it outside and drop it into the canal behind the lot. The current takes it quickly. No one asks questions. No one needs to know.
I return to the garage. The floor is dry and clean. I rinse the mop and hang it to drip. I wipe sweat from my brow and pick up each tool I dropped. Sockets. Ratchets. Wrenches. I line them up on the bench just as she would.
I step back and flip on the radio. Static gives way to a guitar riff. The music fills the bay again.
I wipe the transmission housing and pack away the axle parts. Every bolt, every clip, goes back in place. I close the hood on my project and turn the key. The engine growls to life, smooth and confident.
They’re still out there—Ferrano’s echo hasn’t ended. But I’m no longer part of it. My choice is here: bolts and bearings, order in made things.
Evening falls. The sky outside the windows dims. A soft knock on the side door.
I don’t reach for the knife this time.
I open the door. A woman in her twenties stands in the alley. She’s nervous, hair loose around her face. She holds out keys.
“The clutch is sticking,” she says. “Can you look at it?”
I nod. “Yeah. Bring it around.”
She walks to her dented sedan and pops the hood. Sunlight pools across chipped paint. I lean in, glance at her face. She’s steady despite the jitters.
I roll the car into the bay and cut the engine. Oil and coolant leak onto the floor. I grab a rag and wipe her warning light lens, then study the linkage.
She steps closer. “You work alone?”
I wipe my hands on a towel. “Not always.”
She nods once, as if she understands more than she lets on. Then she steps back and closes the hood.
I pick up the keychain in my palm—Luca’s charm glinting in the last light. My fingers tighten around it.
She watches me. She’s waiting.
I meet her eyes. “I’ll get it cleaned up.”
She smiles, relief pushing past her nerves. She leaves the keys on the bench.
I step to her side. “Name?”
“Marisol.”
“Okay, Marisol. I’ll have it ready.”
She nods again and slips out the door. The hush returns.
I cross to her car and kneel. The clutch cable is nearly shot. I pull a replacement from my parts rack and slide under the truck. Grease coats my arms as I swap the cable and adjust the throwout bearing.
My mind drifts, not toward revenge, but toward her—toward Chiara. Two days. A silence between us that hasn’t broken. But in this garage, I hold name after name in my hands. Each one becomes a promise.
I test the pedal. Firm. No grab. No slip. Just quiet confidence.
I stand and roll the car out. Marisol greets me with a nervous smile.
“It feels good,” she says.
“Drive it easy,” I warn. “Come back if it doesn’t.”
She starts the engine. The clutch catches. She shifts into first and pulls forward. The car rolls down the alley.
I watch her go.
I slip back inside. Rain taps against the roof. I flip the radio off and let the hush settle.
I place Luca’s charm back on the hook above the bench.
My hands are still. My breath is even.
She’s out there. Alive. That’s the only fight I ever needed to win.
I whisper it into the empty bay.
“Chiara.”
And then I turn back to my work.