Chapter 28 - Rocco
Sunlight streams through the high windows, cutting rectangular shafts of heat into my workspace.
Dust motes drift in those beams, settling on fresh paint and polished chrome.
The shop is small—half the size of my last one—but it’s mine.
A crisp sign out front reads Damiani’s in red paint on white metal, swinging on its hinges with an easy certainty.
Inside, the walls are bare except for tool racks, shelves holding parts still in their boxes, and a single bench against the back wall where I lay out the next project.
Clean lines, organized trays, everything ready.
I drop the ratchet, step back, and pull a rag from my back pocket.
I wipe sweat from my neck and smear it across my chest before I drag the cloth across my forearms. Grease streaks the rag gray; a reminder of work that refuses to disappear.
I tie the rag to a hook by my workbench, then reach up to adjust a wrench on the wall—move it a half-inch left so it lines up with the rest. Order matters.
A small shelf stands just inside the office door.
On it sits two items: a leather keychain with Luca’s charm dangling from a broken ring, and a blurry photograph taped to the wall behind it.
The photo catches my eye every morning—a shot of Chiara, caught mid-smile, strands of her hair catching light as she turned from a rusted fender.
She’s in work gloves, face smudged, proud without pretense.
I step over the engine stand and run my fingertip across the charm.
The metal’s worn from contact, but it still bears that stamped date.
I stretch my back, turning to face the bay.
She didn’t come back. Doesn’t mean she’s gone.
I drop into a squat behind the Chevy’s front tire and slide a socket onto the axle nut.
My bones pop as I shift weight, but I don’t mind.
It’s honest discomfort. I crank the wrench until the nut releases, then lift it out with a magnetic tray.
I slide the half-shaft free and inspect it for wear.
The bearings are tight, no pitting. The axle housing needs a fresh coat of oil in the seals, so I break open a new tube of grease and pack it in.
Fingers slip in ointment-slick precision, pressing each bearing in place.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. No caller ID that matters. If she called, she’d have time to talk. If she needed me, she’d have sent a message I’d see immediately. She’s been gone three weeks. I’ve found my own rhythm again.
I lean back against the wall and stretch out my arms overhead. The radio next to me sputters with static and white noise. I fiddle with the dial. No station locks in. No talk or music cuts through. I let it stay on static. That hiss feels like open space, no demands, no headlines.
A sharp rap on the service door overhead slices through the quiet.
My heart tightens just for a fraction of a second before I drop the rag and step forward, knife in my pocket, wrench in hand.
The door lifts, revealing a teenager leaning on a battered scooter frame.
He’s tall, thin, wears a faded T-shirt two sizes too big, and jeans that have seen better days.
“You fix anything,” he asks, voice high-pitched, “or just muscle cars?”
I wipe my hands on my jeans and slip the knife back into its sheath. Wrench goes back on the rack. I pull my shirt on, knotting it at the waist so it won’t flap when I bend over a bike. “If it’s got wheels, I’ll take a look.”
He pushes the lift pedal and rolls the scooter in.
It sputters, coughs, then dies. I crouch beside it.
The front wheel wobbles on its bearings.
One brake lever hangs limp, cables frayed.
I run a finger along the frame’s cracked paint.
No rider tag on the handlebars. Whoever owned it patched it together and kept going.
The kid shifts on his feet. “You’re Damiani, right? Heard your name used to mean something around here.”
I nod and stand. “Still does.”
He laughs, a tight sound. “Ferrano?”
I rest a hand on the scooter’s seat and lean in. “Dead name. You want work or war?”
He swallows. “Work.”
I pull a stool over and sit. “Drop it here. I’ll have it running in two hours.” I gesture to my workbench. “Tools are in the back.”
He drops the scooter on its stand and steps back. “Thanks, man. I—I’ll be back.”
He leaves, the door whooshing shut behind him.
I slip the stool aside and return to the axle housing.
I fit the shaft back in, torque the nut to spec, and wipe my hands again.
There’s a faint sound of cars on the street, engines rising and falling like distant waves.
The shop door’s open, letting that rush of life in.
I stand and rub my palms, then turn to the bench to grab a fresh rag.
I wipe down the chrome calipers, spin the tire to watch concentric circles turn perfectly.
No more threats waiting in the gaps. No shadows of last week.
Just metal aligning with metal, track setting with track, all parts finding their place.
I press the scooter’s start button. It stutters twice, then kicks to life. The exhaust sputters through patched holes and imperfections, but it runs smoothly. The teenager will have a bike that won’t leave him stranded. That’s enough.
I step into the afternoon sun to watch him throttle down the street. He glances back once, gives me a nod. I raise my hand in a quick salute. He doesn’t smile, but he does lift his hand in return. A connection—a passenger exchanged in a moment of trust.
Back in the shop, I wipe oil from the bench, fold rags into a stack, and hang new parts on labeled hooks.
I cross to the shelf by the office door and add the scooter’s ignition key to the keychain with Luca’s charm.
A mechanic’s ledger sits next to it; I flip to today’s page and note: “17-year-old scooter—repaired steering + brakes.”
I close the ledger and step outside for a breath. Palm trees bend against a cloudless sky. A breeze carries city noise—horns, engines, voices all mixed into a hum. I lean on the door frame and watch traffic pass. None of it concerns me. My war is over. My road is here.
I glance back at my shop, sign swinging in the wind, tools glinting behind the windows.
She might never come back here. But every part I fix, every wheel I turn, builds something that lasts.
Each engine that roars out that door is a reminder of what I’ve chosen—a life in motion, in purpose, not in conflict.
I flick the radio dial again. Static spills across the bay, steady and patient.
That’s what peace looks like. One busted engine at a time.
The afternoon has settled into routine. My hands move over the scooter’s carburetor, tightening the mounting bolts one by one, each click echoing in the spacious bay.
Light falls through the high windows, illuminating metal surfaces in broad strokes.
I grease the throttle linkage, ensure every fitting lines up.
Tools hang in their places—socket sets, feeler gauges, torque wrenches—all within reach.
The scooter stands on its center post, tank polished, wheels ready.
Everything almost finished, everything under control.
I step back and wipe grime from my forearms with a shop towel.
The ridges of my muscles shift with the motion, reminders of every fight, every wrench turned in anger or necessity.
Three weeks since Chiara drove off. Three weeks since I promised myself no more blood on my hands.
This scooter isn’t a car—its engine is light, noises at low registers—but it carries the same engine-flame that used to burn my veins. Now it purrs under my touch.
A sudden screech rips through the quiet, tires skidding on gravel outside.
I don’t pause my work. No protective stances, no flash of adrenaline across my face.
I let my fingers complete one last turn, then drop the wrench into the tray.
My gaze shifts to the rolling service door.
A momentary flicker of awareness flares within me.
My hand reaches toward the bench where I keep my knife.
The tang slides free from its sheath. Its blade is cold metal, honed to a precise edge.
If they’re still coming, let them.
That thought carries years of truth: this shop, these tools, this life—they’re mine. If violence finds me here, I meet it on my own terms.
The door bursts upward. A man charges inside, pistol drawn. He’s a Ferrano straggler—one of the ones who never believed the boss was dead. His jacket is stained, sleeves torn at the elbows. His face is half-hidden beneath a cowl. He shouts without hesitation:
“Damiani! You think you’re out?”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t even shift my shoulders. Knife in hand, I take a single step forward. Sunlight from the open door cuts across his barrel. I answer quietly: “No. I know I am.”
He pulls the trigger. The shot slams through the bay, ricocheting off metal surfaces.
It misses me by inches and rattles the nearest tool rack.
I react with muscle memory: dive behind the workbench, wrench swinging in my free hand.
The impact cracks against his knee. He collapses, a howl of pain mixing with the reverberating ricochet.
I spring forward. Knife finds flesh. It sinks deep in a breathless motion, catching tendon and muscle at once. He tries to yank back, but I’m already pressing in, leaving him no room to twist. His ragged breath hitches, blood pouring from the seam I split.
His body loosens on the concrete. I step away and wipe my blade on the rag draped over the door handle. No shout. No announcement. Just the sound of his life draining onto the floor in a spreading pool.
“You should’ve stayed gone,” I say aloud, voice even. Blood seeps beneath my boots. I press one foot against his side and kick the gun away. It skids under a shelving unit, far from his reach.
I take a rag from the bench and fold it over the blade. Once the edge is hidden, I slide the knife back under the bench. My hands aren’t trembling. My breath isn’t ragged. I finish what needs doing.
I bend, grab him under the arms, and drag him through the back door. Concrete gives way to grass and gravel. I dump him by the canal lip. The current whispers just beyond reach. I don’t watch him vanish. I walk back inside.
By the time I flip the back door closed, sweat beads at my temples. I fill a bucket with soapy water and scrub the blood stain from the concrete near the bench. Each stroke lifts a layer of red without question. I rinse the mop, hang it beside the other cleaning tools, and return to the workbench.
A single line of blood marks the spot where he fell. I wipe the remaining smear with a fresh rag. I stack used towels in a corner. No one sees them until Sal’s cleaner arrives.
I tap out a message on my burner phone: “Come get this.”
No address. No explanation. He knows.
I place the phone in my pocket and stand.
Tools lie scattered from the earlier fight—sockets, wrenches, a spring that popped off the scooter shocks.
I pick each one up, wipe oil from their surfaces, and hang them back in order.
The carburetor sits polished and reassembled.
I turn its throttle valve; it revolves with satisfying precision.
I walk to the small shelf by the office door.
Luca’s charm lies on the leather keychain, the metal dulled from contact.
I slide the ring around my finger and then replace it exactly where it belongs.
Next to the blurry photo of Chiara, the charm is a testament to both loss and survival. I press it into its spot and step away.
“Still here. Still mine,” I say, voice low, almost to myself. No echo answers. That’s fine.
I raise the overhead door again. Sunlight floods the bay, heating the concrete in quick patches. Outside, a breeze tugs at banners hanging above the sign. I step into that warmth.
A familiar rumble announces the teenager’s return. He pushes the repaired scooter back into the bay. My head stays raised, eyes on the street, until he comes into view.
He wipes his hands on his jeans and looks me in the eye. “You okay?”
I nod once. “Better than him.”
He hesitates, gaze flicking between the scooter and the spot on the floor. “You kill him?”
My response is quiet but flat. “He was already dead. Just hadn’t stopped breathing.”
He swallows. Then he sets his helmet on the bench and runs a hand over the handlebars. “Thanks.” His voice is firm, full of relief and confusion.
I gesture toward the scooter’s stand. “Take it. Ride fast. Don’t look back.”
His lips press together. Then he swings his leg over and kicks off. The engine sputters at first, roars when he revs it, and then rattles down the road. I watch him go, reflection leaving my control.
Dust settles on the concrete. I close the door. The roar of the highway mutes as the door thuds shut. I hang the rag on its hook. It drips from earlier, but no one cares. I pick up the leather keychain with Luca’s charm one last time, roll it between my fingers.
She’s out there. I’m still here. And that’s not loss. That’s peace.
I turn back to my workbench, breathe in the smell of metal and oil, and get back to work.