Chapter 26 – Nico
The bar’s bloodstains are two nights behind us, the hardwood still marked where Marco’s holdouts fell. Elara’s pipe cracked bone, my knife cut clean, and we sent Calvetti’s puppets running with a message:
Drago’s ours.
Luca’s been tracking their moves since, reporting last night that Calvetti’s safehouse is quiet—too quiet. We hit it tomorrow, like we planned, but today’s not about blades or fights. It’s about building something that lasts.
I stand at the workbench in the Drago garage, tools spread out, an old engine half-dismantled in front of me. The block’s rusted, but it’s solid, worth saving. My hands move steady, wrench turning bolts, grease smearing my knuckles.
The garage is alive—wrenches clinking, metal trays rattling, sunlight streaming through high windows, catching dust motes above faded oil stains. Motorcycles line the walls, half-finished, frames gleaming under fresh polish. This place was my father’s once, then Tommy’s, then forgotten. Now it’s ours, reclaimed like the bar, like the name.
Elara leans against a tool cabinet nearby, arms folded, chain glinting at her hip. She watches, not interrupting, just present, eyes tracking my hands as I pull a spark plug, checking its gap. Her jacket’s open, hair loose, face calm but sharp, like she’s reading more than the engine. I feel her there, steady, part of this—not just the garage, but what it means.
“This place...” I say, setting the plug down, voice low but clear, “it’s not about what we lost. It’s about what we make from it.”
She shifts, stepping closer, boots scuffing the concrete. “Then let’s make something that doesn’t break.”
I nod, wiping grease on my jeans, meeting her eyes. “Drago’s not just a name anymore. It’s a choice.”
Her lips curve, faint but real, and she steps to the workbench, leaning over the engine. “Ours,” she says, voice steady, like it’s been true all along.
There’s nothing left to clean up. No more rot. Just the tools and the time to build something better.
The word settles between us, heavy like heat off a running motor, earned through every fight, every stand. I pick up a wrench, tightening a bolt, feeling the engine’s weight—solid, like us. Elara grabs a rag, wiping down a piston I set aside, her hands moving sure, like she’s done this before. She hasn’t, but she fits here, same as me.
“You ever work on one of these?” I ask, glancing at her, curious.
She shakes her head, tossing the rag down. “No. But I’m good with my hands.”
I grin, quick. “I know.”
Her laugh’s soft, rough, nudging my shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late,” I say, turning the wrench, feeling the bolt lock tight. “You’re stuck with me now.”
She leans closer, elbow brushing mine. “Guess I’ll manage.”
“What’s this one for?” she asks, nodding at the engine, fingers tracing its frame.
“Bike,” I say, pointing to a half-built frame against the wall, chrome catching light. “My father’s design. Never finished it. I’m picking it up.”
Her eyes follow my gesture, studying the frame. “You’re bringing it back?”
“Yeah,” I say, setting the wrench down. “Not for him. For us.”
She nods, like she gets it, and grabs another tool—a screwdriver—handing it to me. “What’s next, then?”
I take it, our fingers brushing, and point to a valve cover. “That’s gotta come off. Check the seals, make sure it’s clean.”
She steps in, helping me lift the cover, her hands steady, grease marking her skin now too. “This is new,” she says, voice quieter. “Working like this. Not fighting.”
“Feels right, though,” I say, meeting her eyes, setting the cover aside.
“It does,” she agrees, wiping her hands, chain shifting against her hip. “But you know it’s not gonna stay quiet.”
She grabs another rag, wiping down the valve cover, working beside me. “What’s this bike gonna be when it’s done?”
I pause, picturing it—sleek, black, fast. “Ours,” I say, voice low. “Something to ride when the fighting’s over.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady, like she’s seeing it too. “I like that.”
“Yeah,” I say, tightening another bolt. “Me too.”
The garage feels alive, sun streaming through, tools clinking, engine taking shape. I think about the bar, the blood we spilled, the name we’re rebuilding. It’s not just steel and grease here—it’s the start of something, a spark we’re fanning into flame.
Elara leans over the workbench, her tank top clinging to her curves, sweat beading on her collarbone. The sight of her—strong, focused, grease-streaked—stirs something deep, a hunger that’s been simmering since we started wrenching on the engine. I set down my wrench, the metal clinking softly, and step closer, my eyes tracing the line of her neck, the way her chain catches the garage’s dim light.
“You’re staring,” she says, her voice low, teasing, without looking up. A smirk tugs at her lips, and her chain shifts, drawing my eye to the hollow of her throat.
“Can’t help it,” I murmur, my fingers brushing her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin under the grit. “You look too damn good like this.”
She straightens, turning to face me, her eyes dark and playful, a spark of mischief in them. “Like what? Covered in grease and sweat?”
“Exactly like that,” I say, stepping into her space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her. My hand slides to her waist, fingers curling into the denim of her jeans, pulling her gently against me. “Makes me want to get you even dirtier.”
Her laugh is soft, husky, sending a shiver down my spine. “Big talk, Nico,” she says, her hands finding my chest, fingers splaying over my shirt, smudging grease across the fabric. “You hungry for something other than this engine?”
“Starving,” I growl, my lips brushing her ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “And not just for food.”
Her breath hitches, and she tilts her head. “Same here,” she murmurs, her voice thick with want. “But I’m filthy. Need a shower to clean this grease off.”
“Me too,” I say, nipping her earlobe, my hands roaming to her hips, thumbs hooking into her belt loops. I tug her closer, our bodies flush, the workbench pressing into her back. The engine gleams beside us, tools scattered, but the world narrows to her—her scent, her heat, the way her lips part as she looks up at me, eyes heavy with suggestion.
“Then let’s clean up,” she challenges, her voice a sultry dare, one hand slipping lower, brushing my thigh through my jeans. The touch is electric, and I groan, my pulse quickening under her gaze. “Unless you’re too chicken to share the shower.”
“Chicken?” I tease, capturing her mouth in a kiss, slow and hungry, tongues brushing in a lazy dance. Her lips are soft but bold, tasting of salt and grease, and I savor her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding under her tank top, finding the warm curve of her skin. Her sigh vibrates against my lips, urging me on, and I pull back, grinning. “Only if you can’t handle me.”
“Fuck, you’re cocky,” she murmurs, her voice playful, hands sliding under my shirt, nails grazing my abs, sending sparks through my nerves. “Move it, Nico. Garage shower’s waiting.”
“Not even a little,” I say, nipping her lower lip, my hands guiding her toward the back of the garage. We weave past the bike frame, the tool racks, the air thick with oil and metal, until we reach the small bathroom tucked in the corner, its shower built for mechanics to scrub off a day’s work. Her laugh is sharp, delicious, and I feel her press closer, her fingers digging into my arm as we step inside, kicking the door shut.
“Shower’s cramped,” she says, flicking on the light, her chain swaying between her breasts. The room’s bare—tiles worn, a single bulb flickering, the shower stall just big enough for one, maybe two if you’re creative. I turn on the water, steam rising as it heats, the hiss filling the space.
“Good,” I say, tugging my shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. Her eyes drop, hungry, lingering on my chest, the grease smudges across my skin. “Like what you see?” I tease, stepping closer, watching her lick her lips.
“Get over here,” she demands, pulling her tank top off, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach, the thin lace of her bra. Our lips crash together, her taste sharp and warm, and she moans into the kiss, her hands tugging at my jeans. “You’re a mess, Nico. Let’s fix that.”
I don’t hesitate, shoving my jeans down, boxers following, my cock already hardening under her gaze. She strips too, jeans and panties hitting the tiles, her chain glinting against her bare skin. The steam curls around us, and I pull her into the shower, the hot water hitting us both, slicking her hair, running in rivulets down her curves. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” I say, my hands sliding over her hips, kissing the water from her shoulder, tasting clean skin and faint oil.
“Nico, don’t tease,” she pants, her voice raw, pressing against me, seeking friction. “I need you now.”
“Patience, baby,” I murmur against her neck, sucking gently, the water pounding around us. Her cry is soft, needy, and I feel her tremble, her hands gripping my shoulders, nails biting into muscle. My fingers trail down, finding her already wet, her heat searing through the water’s warmth. I stroke her slowly, teasing her entrance, and she bucks against my hand, a low moan tearing from her throat.
“Fuck, you’re ready,” I growl, slipping a finger inside her, then two, curling them to hit that spot that makes her shudder. “All this for me?”
“Always for you,” she breathes, her eyes locked on mine, dark and molten. She grabs my wrist, guiding me deeper, and I move faster, the water slicking our skin, steam clouding the air. “Oh, God, Nico, right there,” she gasps, her head falling back, chain glinting as her body arches.
I pump my fingers, watching her face—lips parted, eyes half-closed, moans spilling out, raw and unrestrained. The bathroom fades, the garage, the engine—there’s only Elara, unraveling under my touch. I kiss her again, swallowing her cries, my thumb circling her clit, pushing her closer to the edge.
“Not yet,” I say, pulling my hand free, ignoring her frustrated whimper. I lift her leg, hooking it over my hip. The water streams over us, and I guide myself to her entrance, teasing her with the tip. “I want to feel you first.”
“Fuck, yes,” she says, her voice a mix of command and plea, hands braced on my shoulders, chain swaying against her chest. I thrust into her in one deep stroke, her tight heat enveloping me, drawing a guttural groan from my chest. “Fuck, you feel so good,” I say, my voice rough, hands gripping her hips as I set a slow, deliberate pace, savoring every inch.
“Harder,” she begs, her voice raw, nails raking my back, leaving trails of fire. I obey, slamming into her, the water splashing around us, tiles echoing with the rhythm. Her cries grow louder, uninhibited, filling the small space, and I feel her tightening, her body tensing as she nears the edge. “Nico, I’m gonna come,” she gasps, her legs trembling, chain bouncing against her skin.
“Let go, baby,” I growl, one hand slipping between us, thumb rubbing her clit in tight circles. She shatters, her orgasm hitting hard, a scream tearing from her throat as her walls pulse around me, milking me. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her body shaking, and I keep moving, riding her through it, my own release building, hot and urgent.
“Fuck, Elara,” I groan, thrusting deeper, faster, the pleasure overwhelming. She pulls me down, kissing me fiercely, her tongue claiming mine, and I lose it, coming hard, spilling inside her with a low, shuddering moan. My hips jerk, waves of ecstasy crashing through me, and I hold her tight, our bodies locked together, breathless and spent under the water’s rush.
We stay like that, panting, foreheads pressed together, the shower streaming over us. The tiles are slick, steam thick, her chain cool against my chest, grounding me. I kiss her softly, tasting the water on her lips, her warmth beneath it.
“Damn,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, a lazy smile curving her lips. “That was… worth the grease.”
“You’re telling me,” I say, chuckling, brushing wet hair from her face. “You okay?”
“More than okay,” she says, her hands sliding down my back, warm and possessive. “I needed that. Needed you.”
“Always got you,” I murmur, kissing her again, slow and deep, feeling the truth of it in my bones. “This—us—it’s what makes this place alive.”
She pulls back, meeting my eyes, her gaze soft but fierce. “Same here, Nico. Engine or no engine, we’re good.”
“Damn right,” I say, helping her steady as we step out, water pooling on the tiles. We grab towels, drying off slowly, hands lingering, stealing touches, the bathroom warm and humid around us. The garage waits beyond the door, the engine half-built, tools scattered, but right now, it’s just us, bound by water, heat, and something stronger than steel.
“Let’s grab some food,” I say, pulling on my jeans, my stomach growling now that the hunger’s shifted.
“Yeah,” she says, slipping into her tank top, her chain glinting as she moves. “Then we finish that damn engine.”
We raid the break room’s fridge, finding cold pizza and a couple of sodas, sitting on the workbench, our shoulders brushing. She teases me about my terrible aim with a socket wrench earlier, and I fire back about her dropping a bolt in the oil pan last week. The laughter’s easy, the food simple, but it’s enough, fueling us for the work ahead. The engine still needs its valves adjusted, the bike frame needs aligning, but we’re not rushed. This garage is ours, marked by our sweat, our laughter, our touch.
“Back to it,” I say, tossing my soda can, nodding at the tools.
“Yeah,” she says, hopping off the bench, her chain catching the light. “But don’t think I’m done with you yet.”
I laugh, pulling her close for one more kiss. “Good. I’m counting on it.”
We grab our wrenches, falling into step, tightening bolts, checking fittings, the engine taking shape under our hands. The garage hums around us, oil and metal in the air, but here, it’s us—grease, water, and choice, building something that’s ours. And it’s only the beginning.