Page 39 of Veil of Blood

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” I whisper.

Rocco leans closer, voice softening. “You don’t have to forgive him. But you can survive him. And you can decide how to move forward.”

My breath trembles. I look up, meet his gaze. In his eyes, I see unwavering commitment—he’ll fight beside me, but he won’t make this choice for me.

My chest tightens. I close my fists around the binder, squeezing so hard the rings dig into my palms. I lower my head and breathe in slowly. When I look back at Rocco, my eyes are clear but red-rimmed.

“Okay,” I say, voice hushed. “I’ll wait.”

Rocco exhales, relief softening his features. He nods once. “Good.”

I take a step back toward the cot. I set the ledger beside a stack of blankets and run my fingers through my hair. I taste sweat and blood and determination. The wrench lies abandoned on the floor. Part of me aches to pick it up again, to make Sal pay right now, but another part welcomes this pause, however thin it might be.

Rocco walks to the door and leans against it, arms folded. He watches me as I settle on the mattress again, ledger in my lap. The lines of the room feel suffocating—bare walls, a single bulb, a cot too thin for rest. But here, at least, no one can get in without Rocco finding out. For a moment, I sit in that fragile safety.

“Are you sure?” Rocco’s voice is quiet, but it carries across the small room.

I meet his eyes. I think of Sal’s pale face on the dock, dripping blood into rotten wood, and I taste iron on my tongue. I think of every time I fought for my life, every race I won, every lie I told to stay alive. “I’m sure,” I say. “Because if I kill him now, I lose my focus. I lose the chance to end this on my own terms. I lose me.”

Rocco tilts his head—a slight, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. Relief flickers in his eyes like dawn. “I’m proud of you,” he says quietly. “But don’t think I won’t let you at him later.”

I close the ledger and tuck it against my chest, feeling its weight settle. “I know.”

The door creaks as the lock clicks. Rocco straightens and moves back into the room. He crosses to the cot and sits beside me. His shoulder presses lightly against mine. The air between us hums with possibility—danger, yes, but also rare calm.

Outside, the storm has passed, but distant thunder still rumbles. The safe room feels like a bubble in the eye of chaos. Here, for now, I’m allowed to feel human—betrayed, angry, and still alive.

Rocco reaches for my hand and squeezes gently. I rest my head on his shoulder. My chest heaves, but the tightening in my gut loosens. The weight of the ledger presses against me: every page a promise of vengeance, every name a target. But tonight, I choose patience.

“I need to plan,” I whisper into the hush. “I need to know who else is on that list.”

Rocco nods, voice firm but gentle. “Tomorrow. We’ll go through it together. You’ll rest tonight.”

I inhale, tasting the sharp tang of metal on my tongue. My vision clears. “Thank you,” I murmur.

He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “You don’t owe me thanks,” he says. “You owe yourself a chance.”

I close my eyes, leaning into the small comfort of his presence. Outside the door, the wind rattles the windows. But inside, for the first time since I saw Sal’s handwriting, I feel something like control. I feel the thread between fury and survival snap into place.

I sit upright and fold my legs beneath me, opening the ledger once more. Page by page, I trace the names, every entry forging the map of what I will do. But for now, I do it calmly—because tomorrow, I will act, and I need my mind sharp.

Rocco remains behind me, quiet as a shadow. I lean forward, tracing the inked lines, tasting resolution. The storm outside has passed; inside, we’re just beginning.

I lift my head and meet Rocco’s gaze in the dim light. “I’m ready,” I say.

He nods once, eyes steady. “Then let’s get to work.”

Together, we bend over the ledger. I lean in, finger on the next name. Outside, thunder fades. Inside, the plan takes shape. My heart beats steadily for the first time in days—no longer consumed by rage, but burning with purpose. The war isn’t over. Not yet. But I will win it.

Rocco kneels beside me on the cot, close enough that I smell leather and gun oil. He takes my hand without a word, fingers pressing against my knuckles. His eyes hold mine.

“You don’t have to say it,” he says quietly. “I know it now. You’re her.”

I shut my eyes. My throat dries. “I was. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts so his knee brushes mine. He waits.

I draw a shaky breath and begin. “The fire…Luca’s eyes when I woke. Everything burned. I lost him and Mom in that blaze. I crawled out of the wreckage…and everyone I loved was gone. No one came for me.”

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