Page 81 of Veil of Blood

A single line of blood marks the spot where he fell. I wipe the remaining smear with a fresh rag. I stack used towels in a corner. No one sees them until Sal’s cleaner arrives.

I tap out a message on my burner phone: “Come get this.”

No address. No explanation. He knows.

I place the phone in my pocket and stand. Tools lie scattered from the earlier fight—sockets, wrenches, a spring that popped off the scooter shocks. I pick each one up, wipe oil from their surfaces, and hang them back in order. The carburetor sitspolished and reassembled. I turn its throttle valve; it revolves with satisfying precision.

I walk to the small shelf by the office door. Luca’s charm lies on the leather keychain, the metal dulled from contact. I slide the ring around my finger and then replace it exactly where it belongs. Next to the blurry photo of Chiara, the charm is a testament to both loss and survival. I press it into its spot and step away.

“Still here. Still mine,” I say, voice low, almost to myself. No echo answers. That’s fine.

I raise the overhead door again. Sunlight floods the bay, heating the concrete in quick patches. Outside, a breeze tugs at banners hanging above the sign. I step into that warmth.

A familiar rumble announces the teenager’s return. He pushes the repaired scooter back into the bay. My head stays raised, eyes on the street, until he comes into view.

He wipes his hands on his jeans and looks me in the eye. “You okay?”

I nod once. “Better than him.”

He hesitates, gaze flicking between the scooter and the spot on the floor. “You kill him?”

My response is quiet but flat. “He was already dead. Just hadn’t stopped breathing.”

He swallows. Then he sets his helmet on the bench and runs a hand over the handlebars. “Thanks.” His voice is firm, full of relief and confusion.

I gesture toward the scooter’s stand. “Take it. Ride fast. Don’t look back.”

His lips press together. Then he swings his leg over and kicks off. The engine sputters at first, roars when he revs it, and then rattles down the road. I watch him go, reflection leaving my control.

Dust settles on the concrete. I close the door. The roar of the highway mutes as the door thuds shut. I hang the rag on its hook. It drips from earlier, but no one cares. I pick up the leather keychain with Luca’s charm one last time, roll it between my fingers.

She’s out there. I’m still here. And that’s not loss. That’s peace.

I turn back to my workbench, breathe in the smell of metal and oil, and get back to work.

Chapter 29 – Chiara

Dusk bleeds across the Gulf, paintbrush strokes of gold fading into lavender. My muscle car breathes beneath me, matte-black panels absorbing every hue until they shine with polished intent. I pull onto the coastal highway outside Tampa and feel the engine hum in response, a second heartbeat synchronized with mine. No map. No route. Just asphalt, sky, and salt on my tongue.

I push the windows down. The wind slices through the cabin, pressing against my skin, carrying the tang of brine from the water just beyond the guardrail. My boots rest on the dash, one crossed over the other, toes brushing the rearview. The Luca charm swings there, a quiet anchor reminding me of battles past and the man who never tried to chain me. I reach up, let my fingertips hover over the metal link.

“Still with me?” I murmur into the empty seat beside me.

A soft rattle of the charm answers. I nod, just to confirm. “Yeah. You are.”

My phone sits dead on the passenger seat, screen dark. I haven’t powered it up in days. No calls, no messages. I don’t need any reminders beyond this dashboard and the hum beneath my seat.

Ahead, a set of traffic lights flickers red. I slow, respond to the throttle with precision. The car rolls forward until the light stalls, then stops completely. I slip my boots back onto thefloor, settle my hands on the wheel. My senses heighten. Almost instinctual. Almost…free.

A cherry-red coupe pulls up alongside me. Its paint is glossy, reflections dancing across its curved fenders. The driver revs the engine, grinning brightly even in the dying light. I tilt my head, catch his eye in the mirror. His confidence is loud. I smirk, a small curl of amusement. I don’t speak. I let the moment hang.

He leans out his window. “You run?”

“Yeah,” I respond, voice steady.

The light shifts green. Tires chirp against asphalt. I downshift, power through first, then second gear. The coupe surges beside me. Its exhaust roars. We press side by side, two dark silhouettes racing the horizon.

The wind whips at my hair, but I barely feel it. My world narrows to hood and road, my right hand sliding across the gear shifter like a dancer finding rhythm. Every shift releases torque in measured bursts, pushing me forward. Reflexes fire in perfect sequence: clutch in, gear down, throttle open, clutch out. My tires bite concrete, the world blurring at the edges.

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