Chapter 27 – Viviana
I lean over the bridge railing, my hoodie tugged tight around my scraped arms. The Chicago skyline peeks through low smoke, jagged and hazy in the early morning light.
Sunrise cuts through the gray, gold streaking the slate clouds. Cool wind off the river brushes my face, carrying the damp bite of last night’s rain and a faint sting of ash.
Smoke curls up from the lower districts, Caldera’s last embers fading slow. The city wakes below, sluggish, sirens long gone, just a distant hum now.
Birds stay quiet. The streets feel hollowed out, but this bridge holds steady, humming with its own presence. I breathe it in, ash and all.
My boots scuff the concrete, dust clinging to the laces. I feel every ache, every bruise, but I’m still here, standing.
Dario joins me, his limp slight but there, favoring his left leg. He holds a steaming cup of gas station coffee, the cheap kind that smells like burnt rubber.
He offers it, his bandaged hand steady. I take it, the heat seeping through the paper, warming my palms.
I sip. Grimace. “Tastes like regret.”
He grins, small and tired. “Better than guilt.”
I nod, handing it back. We don’t say anything for a stretch. Just stand there, breathing in the quiet, the river flowing dark beneath us.
The wind tugs at my hood, sharp and brisk. I watch the smoke twist, a ghost of what we burned down last night, and feel it settle, not heavy, just there.
“Do you think it’s really over?” I ask, voice low, my eyes still on the skyline.
He shifts, leaning beside me, his elbow brushing the rail. “No. But I think we get to decide what comes next.”
I turn to him, his face rough with stubble, eyes soft but clear. No promises in them, just truth, and I nod, letting it sink in.
My gaze drops to his bandaged hand, the knuckles red beneath the gauze. My own are bruised, purple blooming under the skin, and I flex them, feeling the sting.
“We could run a shop out of a jazz van,” I say, the words slipping out, half a joke, half real.
He laughs, slow and genuine, a sound that cuts through the haze. “Whiskey in the glove box, lilies in the back.”
I smirk, leaning closer. “And you? Security?”
“Driver,” he says, his grin widening. “Fast exits, no questions.”
Our fingers brush on the rail, rough skin catching rough skin. Neither of us pulls away.
I look out again, the sunrise painting the river gold. “I thought revenge would taste better.”
He takes a sip of the coffee, wincing at it. “It tastes like metal and memory. But freedom? That’s still cooking.”
I nod, feeling that, the bitterness fading into something else. Not sweet, but mine.
“So we build something else?” I ask, my voice steady, testing the idea.
He tilts his head, eyes on me. “Not a kingdom. Not a war. Just… a life.”
I let that hang, the wind carrying it off. No grand vows, no pretty lies, just us, here.
“A jazz van,” I say, grinning faint. “With peonies and bourbon.”
“We’ll sell out by noon,” he says, his laugh rumbling low, real.
I chuckle, the sound surprising me, light against the ash. The city stretches below, waking slow, and I feel the morning shift, a breath we’ve earned.
“I used to think I’d die out there,” I say, voice soft, tracing the rail with my thumb.
“You didn’t,” he says, his hand resting near mine, close but still.
“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t.”
The wind picks up, tugging at my hair, and I feel the dampness on my skin, the post-rain chill settling in. It’s sharp, but I don’t mind.
“I thought I’d lose myself,” I say, looking at the river. “In the fire, the fight.”
“You found yourself,” he says, voice low, sure. “Right in the middle of it.”
I nod, a small laugh slipping out. “Yeah. Took a hell of a mess to see it.”
He grins, sipping the coffee again. “Worth it.”
I take the cup from him, drink deep despite the taste. “Maybe.”
The sunrise climbs higher, gold bleeding into the gray, and I feel the bridge beneath my boots, solid, unyielding.
“We’re still standing,” I say, voice steady, handing the cup back.
“Barely,” he says, smirking, but his eyes hold pride.
“Barely’s enough,” I say, leaning on the rail, feeling the cool metal bite my palms.
He nods, setting the coffee down, his bandaged hand flexing slow. “More than enough.”
The wind cuts through, brisk and clean, and I feel the ash on my boots, the city waking slow around us. It’s not over, but it’s ours.
“I thought I’d hate this place,” I say, voice steady, looking at the skyline. “After everything.”
“You don’t,” he says, watching me, his eyes clear.
“No,” I say, nodding. “I don’t.”
He picks up the coffee, offers it again. I take it, sip, and grimace less this time.
“Still regret?” he asks, smirking faint.
“Less,” I say, handing it back. “Getting there.”
He laughs, soft and tired, and I feel it, the hope creeping in, sly and quiet. Not loud, not bright, but steady.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, voice firm, leaning on the rail beside him.
“Yeah,” he says, his hand resting near mine. “We will.”
The sunrise is higher, cutting through the smoke, and I feel the bridge hum beneath us, a lifeline we’ve claimed.
The truck doors creak open as the sun pulls itself over the horizon, turning the sky from charcoal to pewter to fire-washed gold. We’ve parked just east of the old canal, where the water looks like glass and the bridge groans every time a car drives over it. Dario’s next to me on the back ledge of the florist truck, his thigh pressed against mine.
There’s a stillness in my bones this morning that I’ve never known. Not the kind that comes from exhaustion. This one feels like arrival.
A low purr of an engine rolls in over gravel. I know that sound before I see her.
Rita pulls up on the vintage Triumph, black helmet gleaming. Her lipstick is smeared just at one corner. She looks like she either rolled out of bed or out of someone else’s, but the box balanced on her lap is pristine.
“Coffee?” she calls, voice dry as ever, unzipping her jacket and sliding off the bike in one motion. “No? Then I brought bribes.”
She holds up the pastry box like it’s treasure.
Dario chuckles without opening his eyes. I take the box, set it on the edge of the truck bed. Warmth seeps through the cardboard. It smells like cinnamon and almonds and maybe actual heaven.
“Told you she’d show,” I say softly to him.
“I knew she would,” he replies, voice gravel-thick.
“You just didn’t think she’d bring carbs.”
Rita hoists herself onto the truck bed beside me. “I like carbs. They’re dependable.”
Ten minutes later, T-Bone limps around the corner. His hoodie’s half-zipped, sling crooked across his chest like it’s lost a fight with gravity. He raises one hand like a preacher mid-sermon.
“Glory be, I made it,” he says, climbing up with more drama than his limp deserves. “Who’s got painkillers? Or a muffin. Honestly, I’ll take either.”
Rita passes him a pastry. I hand him some coffee. He makes a face like he’s about to whine, but Rita’s already uncapping a silver flask and tipping a measure in. No one asks what’s in it. We know better.
“Now that’s coffee,” T-Bone says, then winces. “Shit. Laughing hurts.”
We sit like that for a while, the four of us in the truck bed, backs against flower crates, legs dangling out into morning light. The city is just waking up behind us, but here on this cracked patch of gravel, it feels like we exist in a pocket outside of everything.
“Are you two actually gonna go legit now?” Rita asks, biting into a croissant and eyeing me over the edge. “Or just start slinging morality out the back of this truck?”
“No,” I say, brushing crumbs off my lap. “Just flowers. And whiskey, maybe. If the license paperwork isn’t a nightmare.”
T-Bone snorts. “That’s the most honest business I’ve ever heard.”
Rita raises her pastry like a toast. “To whatever comes next.”
We tap coffee cups and flask. Dario still hasn’t moved much, but his shoulder leans a little heavier into me now. I don’t shift away.
It’s not victory we’re toasting. Not survival either. We’re toasting breath. Bruised ribs and broken habits. The fact that we’re here, somehow, still able to laugh.
A breeze brushes past, rustling the edge of a tarp folded behind us. Beneath it, nestled between crates of salvaged bulbs and scavenged tools, a single bloom is opening. White camellia. The tag tied around its stem reads: Rebirth.
I don’t remember packing it. Might’ve been tucked in by Dario, or maybe it just got swept along in the chaos. But it’s here now. Perfect. Unapologetic. Open.
Dario finally speaks, voice low enough that only I catch it.
“That’s you.”
I glance down at him. His profile’s cut sharp in the light. He’s not smiling, exactly. But his lips twitch, and his hand brushes my knee like a reflex.
“Still think I’m dangerous?” I ask, nudging his ankle with mine.
He nods. “But the kind that doesn’t burn down everything. Just the kind that does what needs to be done”
I lean in, forehead resting briefly against his temple. No kiss. No heat. Just contact.
We don’t need heat today. We’ve walked through enough flames.
Across from us, T-Bone’s already halfway through a second pastry. Rita’s pouring more flask into the coffee. For a moment, it’s easy to forget the blood, the smoke, the way we had to claw our way back into the light.
But I don’t forget. I carry it with me. The way you carry a scar—not out of shame, but because it proves you healed.
Dario turns his head, brushes his lips to my temple. I let him. I don’t close my eyes.
Because I want to see this. All of it.