Page 33 of Veil of Blood

He steps inside, quiet but not careful. His eyes adjust fast. I already know he's not surprised to see me down here. I think he came expecting this.

Rocco doesn’t look angry. Doesn’t bark, doesn’t pull his gun. He closes the door behind him like he’s stepping into a room with no exits and doesn’t mind.

“Get out,” I say, breath short.

He pauses by the last step, eyes moving from my face to the mess on the floor to the open lockbox I didn’t manage to seal.

“What’s that?” he asks, voice even.

“Nothing you need to see.”

“You don’t shake like that over nothing.”

I straighten slowly. Hands open at my sides. My stomach twists. I tell myself I can still bluff this out, but my fingers are trembling. That ledger’s still sitting half-shoved under a rag, and the corner’s peeking out like it wants to be found.

He walks in, slow, not cautious—controlled. Rocco’s never been clumsy in his life. Every move is dialed in. Trained. Calculated.

But I also know he’s not just here for a fight.

He stops two feet away. Doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t reach for the binder.

“Sal?” he asks, low. “What did he do?”

I fold my arms, but it doesn’t make me feel stronger. My voice doesn’t come. My mind’s moving too fast—back to the pages I just read. Back to the name scrawled across that line. Falcone, Chiara – confirmed alive. Paid. Sold. Tracked.

I don’t answer.

He looks down.

His eyes land on the binder.

I see the moment it registers. Not just what it is, but what it means. He moves to the bench. Reaches down. Pulls it out.

He opens it.

Flips through.

Doesn’t speak for a while.

Then: “Falcone.”

One word. That’s all it takes.

I step backward until my back hits the wall.

“Don’t say it,” I snap. “Don’t make it real.”

He doesn’t flinch.

I froze when I felt his eyes flick to my collarbone. Of course he knew it was me—he’d felt my presence long before I opened my mouth.

Still, when that feather-light Ferrano silver slipped into view, its broken clasp catching the light, my heart slammed against ribs I didn’t know I had.

I tugged at my shirt, hoping to hide it again, but the truth was out: I couldn’t erase what was already written in silver.

His eyes trace from the charm to my face.

“Chiara,” he says again.

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