Page 54 of Veil of Blood

I grab his hand. Fingers lace with mine, strong grip. We move fast, boots patting gravel, feet splashing shallow puddles of oil and rain. My shirt sticks to my side. My chain brushes my throat with each step.

We round a corner and slip onto a side street. A taxi idles at the curb. I wave, but the driver doesn’t see us. We keep going, heading toward the main road. Night’s hush lifts, replaced by distant horns and rumble of engines.

I glance at Rocco. Sweat beads on his temple. “Love is risk,” I murmur, voice nearly lost in traffic hum. “This time, I’m not the only one bleeding for it.”

He presses a fingertip to my wrist. “I know.”

We pause under a streetlight. Pools of yellow wash across broken pavement. I pull him closer, nestle against him so my cheek brushes his shirt. He wraps an arm around me, tucks me into a safe space beneath his shoulder.

I let his hand rest in mine. No reply, just the press of skin and the knowing we share. Together, we step into the crosswalk, traffic parting like silent witnesses. Cars glide past as we move.

Neon ads flicker overhead—bars, diners, flickering closed signs. Our reflection shimmers in shop windows, half there, half gone. I tuck my free hand around his waist. He presses back, grounding me.

“Where to now?” he asks, voice soft.

I lift my chin. “Someplace without ghosts.”

He nods. “Let’s go.”

And we walk away from the docks and the bodies. The ledger is gone—burned with Marco or locked away at my side. Our scars stay with us, but they’re no longer chains. We vanish into the city’s dawn, hunted, messy, but together.

Chapter 18 – Rocco

The door locks with a sharp click, sealing us in the cheap motel room, where neon light slices through the blinds, casting jagged shadows on the peeling walls. The air smells of bleach and mildew, the mini-fridge humming in the corner, the bed’s stained cover sagging limply. Chiara’s bag hits the floor with a soft thud, and we stand in the doorway, bruised and breathless, our bodies marked by the fight we just survived. Her tank clings to her sweat-slicked skin, her jeans low on her hips, the Ferrano chain glinting at her throat. My shirt sticks to my back, soaked with sweat, the scar on my temple itching, a reminder of my own battles.

She crosses the room, peeling off her hoodie without a glance at me, letting it fall in a heap. Her tank exposes the bruises on her arms, the chain swinging against her collarbone, catching the light. She stares at the dusty TV, her stance tense, like she’s waiting for something to break. I ease the bolt from my side, every movement heavy with the weight of what we’ve been through, what we’re about to do. My eyes trace the cut on her knuckles, the dark bruise on her neck, and I feel the pull to her, the need to ground us both in something real.

She turns, her eyes raw, pinning me in place. “You keep looking at me like I’m about to disappear.”

I step closer, boots creaking on the thin carpet, my voice low. “I need to know this is real.”

Her chest rises with a single breath, and she closes the gap, standing so close her stray hair brushes my cheek, her scent—sweat, adrenaline, and something uniquely Chiara—filling my lungs. “It’s real right now,” she says, her voice steady. “That’s all I’ve got.”

My hand moves to her chain, the cold metal biting into my palm, a tether to her past, to Luca, to us. I tilt her chin up, meeting her gaze, and my fingers catch the rusted silver bracelet on her wrist, a relic of another life. I brush her hair back, my lips pressing to her forehead, a silent promise. She doesn’t flinch, her eyes fluttering closed, and I kiss her, soft at first, testing, my lips brushing hers, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint tang of blood from a split lip.

Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepens, our tongues meeting, hot and hungry, her body pressing against mine, every muscle taut against the motel’s musty air. She tastes like adrenaline, like relief, and I groan into her mouth, my hands sliding down her back, gripping her ass through her jeans, squeezing hard. She pushes me toward the bed, her hands shoving at my chest, and I let her, falling back onto the mattress, the springs creaking under my weight.

She climbs onto me, straddling my hips, her weight pressing against my ribs, her chain dangling between us, brushing my chest. I tug at her tank, peeling it up and off, careful of her bruises, exposing her breasts, her nipples already hard in the cool air. My hands roam her skin, slick with sweat, tracing the curve of her waist, the soft weight of her breasts, my thumbs circling her nipples until she gasps, her hips grinding against the growing bulge in my jeans. She yanks my shirt up, her nails scraping my abs, and I help her pull it over my head, tossing it aside. Her fingers find the scar on my temple, tracing it, not with pity but with understanding, her touch grounding me.

I tug her hips closer, my teeth grazing her collarbone, nipping through the thin fabric of her bra. She arches into me, her pussy pressing against my cock, the heat of her seeping through our clothes. I unbuckle my belt, the metal clinking, and she slides off me, shucking her jeans, her movements quick but deliberate, leaving her in just her bra and panties, the chain glinting against her skin. I push my jeans down, kicking them off, my boxers tented with my erection, and she straddles me again, her hands shoving my boxers down, freeing my cock, thick and heavy, the tip slick with precum.

Her bra comes off next, my fingers deftly unhooking it, and I toss it aside, my mouth finding her breasts, kissing a slow path from her neck down, my tongue circling one nipple, then the other, sucking hard until she moans, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. I cup her through her panties, my palm pressing against her pussy, feeling the damp heat, the way she pulses under my touch. I slide the fabric aside, my fingers gliding through her slick folds, circling her clit, then dipping inside, two fingers pumping slowly, curling to hit that spot that makes her hips buck.

“Rocco,” she gasps, her head tipping back, her mouth parted, eyes half-closed as I work her, my thumb rubbing her clit, my fingers fucking her deeper, her wetness coating my hand. She grips the sheets, her nails digging in, and I lean up, capturing her mouth, swallowing her moans as I add a third finger, stretching her, preparing her. She’s tight, so fucking tight, and I groan at the thought of being inside her.

She shifts, impatient, her hands shoving at my shoulders, and I let her guide me, lying back as she positions herself over my cock, her panties gone now, her pussy bare and glistening.She wraps her legs around my waist, her hands bracing on my chest, and sinks down, taking me in slowly, inch by inch, her walls clenching around me, hot and wet. I gasp, my hands gripping her hips, my cock throbbing as she takes me to the hilt, her chain clinking with every movement, a reminder of who she is, what this means.

She moves first, her hips rolling, slow and sure, riding me with a rhythm that makes my head spin. I match her pace, thrusting up, our bodies pressed chest to chest, slick with sweat, sliding together. Her nails rake my shoulders, leaving red trails, and I groan, my hands guiding her hips, urging her faster. She leans down, kissing me, her tongue plunging into my mouth, her breaths hot and ragged, and I flip us, rolling her onto her back, my cock still buried inside her.

I thrust hard, my hips snapping, her legs spreading wider, her heels digging into my ass. “Fuck, you’re so deep,” she moans, her hands gripping my biceps, her pussy clenching around me, so tight it’s almost too much. I pull out halfway, then slam back in, the wet sound of our bodies filling the room, mingling with her gasps, my grunts. I hook one of her legs over my shoulder, opening her wider, and the new angle makes her cry out, her hands fisting the sheets as I pound into her, hitting that spot that makes her tremble.

“More,” she begs, her voice raw, and I pull out, flipping her onto her stomach, her ass in the air, her face pressed into the mattress. I spread her cheeks, my tongue licking a slow path from her pussy to her ass, circling the tight ring of muscle, teasing until she squirms, her moans muffled by the sheets. I slide two fingers into her pussy, pumping fast, my thumbrubbing her clit, and she pushes back, fucking herself on my fingers, her body shaking.

I can’t wait anymore. I position myself behind her, my cock sliding into her pussy, the angle tight and perfect, and I thrust hard, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her back onto me with every stroke. Her ass bounces with each thrust, her chain swinging, catching the neon light, and I lean forward, my chest pressing against her back, my lips kissing her shoulder, her neck, as I fuck her deeper, faster, the bed creaking under us.

“Rocco, I’m close,” she gasps, her voice breaking, and I reach around, my fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles as I thrust, my cock swelling inside her. She cries out, her body locking around me, her pussy pulsing as her orgasm hits, her walls milking me, pulling me over the edge. I thrust once more, hard, and come, spilling inside her, hot and thick, my groan loud in the quiet room.

We collapse, panting, my body covering hers, our sweat mingling on the rumpled sheets. I roll off, pulling her close, her chain resting between her collarbones, my scar pressed against her arm. I brush hair from her face, kissing her temple, and she reaches up, her fingers trailing across my chest, grounding me as morning light edges the blinds.

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