Page 23 of Veil of Blood

The heat’s still thick even though the sun’s long gone. Concrete radiates it back up in waves, heavy with gas fumes and burnt rubber. I pull into the lot off Northwest 30th, where the old shipping yard dies into scrubland. Headlights sweep across busted fences and rusted containers tagged with names I don’t recognize. Doesn’t matter. I’m not here for the crowd. Just the speed.

I kill the engine, yank the keys, and slam the door shut harder than I need to. The borrowed Mitsubishi grumbles as it cools. Paint’s a matte black, the underbody rigged with neon green. Not subtle, but I didn’t pick it for stealth. This car came from a friend of a friend. Cash up front, no questions.

My hoodie’s down to my eyebrows, shadowing most of my face. I pop the trunk, grab the helmet, and walk past the car to slap the number onto the inside of the windshield. 27. Lucky enough.

“Helmet in the back. Number on the windshield. No talking.” That’s what the girl with the clipboard muttered earlier when she handed over the slot. Her ponytail flicked like a whip when she turned back to the next driver. I didn’t bother with names.

No one here’s interested in pleasantries anyway. It’s all noise and engines. Music pulses from a cluster of cars rigged with custom subs. People lean on hoods, drape themselves across spoilers like they’re on camera, even when they’re not. Everyone trying to be seen. I’m trying to vanish.

I keep my head down as I walk the circuit. Concrete lanes marked by old cones and trash cans. Makeshift barriers made out of steel fencing and barrels filled with sand. Some guys look up. Some of them register my face—half-familiar—but not enough to place it. A few nod like they’ve seen me run before.

They don’t know me. They know Clara. That’s the difference. Clara fixed bumpers and tuned torque curves. Chiara Ferrano used to silence men in mirrored clubs. Tonight, I’m somewhere between the two. Unstable territory.

I check the tires. My fingers brush the treads, sharp and grippy. I circle to the front, check under the hood, quick glances at belts and clamps. Someone wolf-whistles from behind, probably assuming I’m eye candy for a guy in the circuit. I don’t react. Let them think whatever makes them underestimate me.

The lineup’s almost ready. Eight cars in the heat. I’ll be in the third slot. I take a breath and climb in, helmet in hand, door groaning as it shuts. Inside smells like sweat and oil. Steering wheel worn down at the top where someone used to palm it hard through turns. I like that. Signs of pressure. Signs this car doesn’t fold.

I twist the helmet on tight and settle in. Hands grip the wheel, loose at first. I roll my neck, brace my elbows.

“No Rocco. No Sal. Just me and the road.”

The inside of my mouth tastes like metal. Rocco’s name still echoes when I say it. I can’t stop that part. Doesn’t matter how hard I try to shift focus, his voice keeps dragging in like static. That kiss—fast, rough, unexpected—is stitched into my skin like a bad tattoo. Every time I let my mind drift, I feel theheat of his hand sliding under my shirt, the scrape of his stubble at my neck.

He doesn’t get to own that.

I needed it. Not him.

The signal drops—an old metal bat smacking asphalt three times. That’s the start cue. Engines roar all at once. I snap forward in my seat and hammer the gas.

The car lurches, tires scream against pavement, and I shoot down the lane. Left edge dips from a pothole, and I ride the line, cutting wide before pulling in sharp. The rear twitches—tiny—but the traction holds. I adjust the clutch barely a breath too late, feel the delay ripple through the frame. Fix it. Recalibrate. Drive.

The others jockey hard, one scraping too close on my right, probably trying to intimidate. His grille flashes, high beams flicked on. Idiot.

I pivot inward, slice him off, cut the angle so tight he has to back off or clip a barrel. I don’t check mirrors. Just calculate. Every curve, every shift point, every inch of road under me, I feel it. I anticipate.

That part of me doesn’t need therapy. Doesn’t need to talk it out. It just knows.

Luca would’ve hated this. All the noise. The risk. He liked clean systems, perfect symmetry. But there’s a part of me that wonders if he would’ve come anyway, stood at the edge of the crowd and thrown his hands up with a grin.

Or maybe he’d be next to me, laughing his ass off in the passenger seat, telling me I was taking the corners too clean.

I hit the final turn wide, let the tail end swing a little longer than needed. A flash of Rocco’s face barrels into my head again—his mouth, open and wanting, when he pulled me against the wall. That look in his eyes, the second before he kissed me. Like he was going to break something. Or like he already had.

I slam back into gear and floor it.

The final stretch disappears under me. The finish line is barely marked, just a stack of crates and two cones where people stand filming. I cross it in third.

My hands are shaking. Legs stiff. Pulse jackhammering.

But I’m breathing. Deep and full. Everything's sharper. Clearer. My fingers flex and unclench on their own.

I let the car coast down the far lot. No victory lap. No crowd-waving. I pull into the shade of a half-collapsed structure and kill the engine. It sputters once and dies.

I sit there, helmet in my lap, sweat soaking into the collar of my shirt. I let the sound of revving engines and cheers fade out behind me.

Still got it. Still mine.

And no one gets to take that away. Not the Ferranos. Not the ghosts. Not Rocco with his hands and his heat and his too-familiar hurt.

---