Page 18 of Veil of Blood

Sal doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even pause. Just flicks a half-lit cigarette out of his breast pocket, sparks it against his thumbnail, and vanishes around the corner like we weren’t frozen in the middle of something sharp and close.

The moment’s gone. But not undone.

Rocco’s eyes don’t leave me right away. His mouth is set, but he’s weighing his next move. If Sal hadn’t interrupted, I don’t know what he would’ve asked. And worse—I don’t know if I would’ve answered.

He looks down at the keys in his hand. Then back at me.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

He’s not asking if I’ll be here. He’s telling me he will be.

“If the car holds,” I reply.

It’s meant to sound like a brush-off. It doesn’t. I hear it as soon as it leaves my mouth—too soft, too defensive, too close to the edge of something I can’t afford to let fall.

He nods once. Just that.

Then he walks out.

I stand frozen, fingers still curled tight around the edge of the workbench. My nails bite into the underside, grounding me. I don’t blink until the echo of the door fades behind him.

Through the high window near the back, I catch the edge of his car’s taillights as they disappear. They don’t rush. He doesn’t speed away like a man trying to forget. He moves like someone with a plan.

I breathe out, but it’s shaky now.

Then I say it—so low I barely hear it myself.

“Rocco.”

Just his name. Nothing else. No explanation. No justification. It’s not meant for anyone but me.

A confession spoken too late.

The wrench I dropped yesterday still lies near the corner of the bench. I haven’t picked it up. Didn’t even move it with my foot. It’s been there for a day, and now it looks like it belongs here—just another part of the mess I’m pretending not to see.

I sink down onto the stool.

He knows. Or he’s about to.

And I’m already out of time.

Chapter 6 – Chiara

The main lights are off.

Just one bulb hangs overhead in the backroom, ticking quietly like it’s been on too long. It buzzes sometimes, not enough to distract, but enough to keep the room from being still.

I pace.

Back and forth across the same six feet between the crates and the sink. My boots leave faint smudges on the floor. I rub at the dried grease on my hands like it’ll help me think. Like it’ll strip the last hour off my skin.

He’s gone.

Car’s gone. Keys taken. Words tucked in his back pocket like he’s waiting to throw them down next time.

Questions aren’t gone.

They never are.

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