Chapter Twenty-One
The morning was gray and quiet when Nail pulled up outside Morrow's Garage.
Sadie stood on the sidewalk, her keys in her hand, staring at the bay doors like she was seeing them for the first time. The last time she'd been here, the place had been destroyed—tools scattered, tires slashed, her name carved into six hoods like a brand.
Now it looked... whole.
New bay doors, freshly painted in the same industrial green her uncle had chosen thirty years ago. New cameras mounted at every angle, their red lights blinking steady. New locks on every entrance, heavy-duty steel that would take more than a box cutter to breach.
"Formstone's crew does good work," Nail said, coming up beside her.
"They do." She turned the key in her hand. "I'm almost afraid to look inside."
"Why?"
"Because what if it doesn't feel like mine anymore?" The words came out before she could stop them. "What if they fixed everything but I can't find myself in it?"
Nail was quiet for a moment. Then he took the key from her hand, unlocked the bay door, and rolled it up with the smooth efficiency of a man who'd handled a thousand practical tasks without making them feel like burdens.
"Only one way to find out," he said.
Inside, the garage smelled like fresh paint and new rubber.
The lift was pristine—new controls, new cables, the kind of equipment she could have only dreamed of before.
The tool chest stood upright against the wall, her wrenches and sockets arranged exactly how she'd left them, because Formstone's crew knew better than to mess with a mechanic's organization.
And on the lift, waiting for her, was Mrs. Patterson's Civic.
Brand new engine. Fresh paint. Not a scratch anywhere.
Sadie walked toward it slowly, her boots echoing on the clean concrete. She ran her hand along the hood—smooth, unmarked, no trace of the name that had been carved there.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"You're going to make it run even better." Nail found an overturned bucket in the corner and dragged it to a spot near the lift. Sat down like he had nowhere else to be. "Go ahead. Show me what you do."
She laughed. "You want to watch me work?"
"I want to watch you do the thing you love." His smile was easy, real. "Is that so strange?"
It should have been. Sadie wasn't used to audiences—wasn't used to anyone caring about the work beyond whether the car ran when she was done. But Nail sat on that bucket like he was settling in for a show, his eyes on her hands, and she realized this was just how he loved.
By paying attention. By being present. By watching her the way she watched him work the bar.
She grabbed her tools and got to work.
The engine was perfect—club money had bought the best parts available—but perfect wasn't enough for Morrow's Garage. Perfect was the baseline. She adjusted the timing, checked the belts, ran a diagnostic that showed everything humming exactly the way it should.
Nail watched the whole time. Didn't ask questions, didn't interrupt, just sat there with his coffee (she'd made a pot the second she walked in, muscle memory kicking in) and observed.
The silence between them was comfortable. Easy. The kind of quiet that didn't need filling because both people understood that presence was enough.
"Your hands move differently when you're working," he said eventually.
She glanced up from the engine bay. "What do you mean?"
"Everywhere else, you're guarded. Controlled. Like you're always expecting something to go wrong." He gestured with his coffee cup. "But here? You're fluid. Natural. Like the wrench is part of you."
"This is where I make sense." She wiped her hands on a rag. "The rest of the world is complicated. Engines are simple. You find the problem, you fix it, you move on."
"People aren't that different."
"People are completely different." She leaned against the Civic's fender. "People lie. They hide things. They pretend to be something they're not."
"And engines don't?"
"Engines can't." She smiled. "That's why I trust them."
Nail stood, crossing the garage to stand in front of her. His hands found her hips, pulling her close despite the grease on her fingers.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"I trust who you are with me." She met his eyes. "The man who drops the mask. The one who watches me work like it matters."
"It does matter."
"I know." She kissed him—quick, casual, the kind of kiss that couples gave each other a thousand times without thinking. "Now let me finish this car before you distract me completely."
He laughed and returned to his bucket.
By noon, the Civic was ready—better than ready, running cleaner than it probably had when it rolled off the factory line. Sadie stepped back and listened to the engine purr, satisfaction settling warm in her chest.
One down. Five to go.
"Come on," Nail said, standing and stretching. "You've been in here for hours. Let's ride."
"Ride where?"
"Wherever." He held out his hand. "It's a nice day. Your garage is fixed. Fisk is dead. I think we've earned a few hours of pretending we're normal people."
She took his hand.
They rode through Canton on his bike, the harbor on their left, the row houses on their right. The wind cut through Sadie's hair and the engine rumbled beneath her, and for the first time in weeks, she let herself relax completely.
No threat chasing them. No violence waiting around the corner. Just the man in front of her and the streets they'd both grown up on.
Nail pulled up in front of a waterfront bar she hadn't seen in years—a little place on the pier, more locals than tourists, the kind of dive that hadn't changed since the seventies.
"O'Malley's," she said, climbing off the bike. "My uncle used to bring me here."
"I know." He locked up and took her hand again. "You mentioned Shirley Temples after school."
"You remembered that?"
"I remember everything about you."
The bar was mostly empty at this hour—a few retirees nursing beers, a bartender who looked like he'd been working the same shift since Carter was president. Nail ordered sandwiches and two beers, and they carried their food out to the pier where the wooden benches overlooked the water.
Sadie sat beside him, their shoulders touching, and watched the harbor traffic crawl by. Container ships and tugboats and the occasional sailboat cutting through the gray water.
"This is where Mickey taught me to tie knots," she said. "He'd bring rope from the garage and make me practice while we ate. Said a mechanic needed to know how to secure things properly."
"Did it help?"
"Probably." She smiled at the memory. "I can still tie a bowline one-handed."
"Useful skill."
"For a Canton kid, yeah."
They ate in comfortable silence, the salt air mixing with the smell of fried fish and the ever-present tang of the harbor. Sadie finished her sandwich and leaned against Nail, his arm coming around her shoulders like it belonged there.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"That this is nice." She tilted her head to look at him. "Just... being. Without looking over my shoulder."
"Get used to it." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "This is what normal looks like for us. Garage in the morning, bar at night, time together in between."
"And Sundays at the compound."
"And Sundays at the compound."
A gull screamed overhead, diving for something in the water. Sadie watched it surface with a fish in its beak and fly off toward the docks.
"I never thought I'd have this," she said quietly.
"Someone who wanted to sit on a bucket and watch me work.
Someone who remembered where my uncle used to take me for Shirley Temples.
" She looked down at her hands—grease under the nails, calluses across the palms. "Someone who didn't want me to be anything other than what I am. "
"You're exactly what I want." Nail's voice was low, certain. "The grease, the backbone, the stubbornness. All of it."
"Even the part where I can't cook?"
"That's what my bar's kitchen is for."
She laughed, and the sound felt lighter than it had in years.
They stayed on the pier until the sun started dropping, casting orange light across the harbor and turning the water to gold.
Then they rode back through Canton, past the garage (locked up tight, waiting for Monday), past the streets where they'd both been children, past all the places that held their histories.
When they finally pulled up to the compound, the evening was settling in and brothers were gathering for what looked like another night of drinking and stories.
But Nail didn't head for the clubhouse. He killed the engine and just sat there, Sadie still pressed against his back, her arms around his waist.
"What?" she asked.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how my father never had this." His voice was quiet. "Someone to ride home with. Someone to sit in the bar and talk to after closing. He had the charm and the bottles and the slow slide into nothing." He turned his head, catching her eye. "I have you."
"You have me," she agreed.
"And you have me."
"I know." She kissed his shoulder through his jacket. "Now take me inside before I freeze. Your Baltimore springs are colder than anyone warns you about."
He laughed and they dismounted together, walking toward the clubhouse with their hands linked.
Behind them, the harbor lights were coming on, reflecting off the water the way they had for a hundred years. Ahead of them, the compound glowed with warmth and noise and the family they'd both found.
This was what their life looked like without chop shops and threats and violence.
A mechanic with grease on her hands and a bartender with his mask down.
Two Canton kids on the same blocks their families had built.
Together.