Page 118 of Veil of Secrets

The bar’s bloodstains are two nights behind us, the hardwood still marked where Marco’s holdouts fell. Elara’s pipe cracked bone, my knife cut clean, and we sent Calvetti’s puppets running with a message:

Drago’s ours.

Luca’s been tracking their moves since, reporting last night that Calvetti’s safehouse is quiet—too quiet. We hit it tomorrow, like we planned, but today’s not about blades or fights. It’s about building something that lasts.

I stand at the workbench in the Drago garage, tools spread out, an old engine half-dismantled in front of me. The block’s rusted, but it’s solid, worth saving. My hands move steady, wrench turning bolts, grease smearing my knuckles.

The garage is alive—wrenches clinking, metal trays rattling, sunlight streaming through high windows, catching dust motes above faded oil stains. Motorcycles line the walls, half-finished, frames gleaming under fresh polish. This place was my father’s once, then Tommy’s, then forgotten. Now it’s ours, reclaimed like the bar, like the name.

Elara leans against a tool cabinet nearby, arms folded, chain glinting at her hip. She watches, not interrupting, just present, eyes tracking my hands as I pull a spark plug, checking its gap. Her jacket’s open, hair loose, face calm but sharp, like she’s reading more than the engine. I feel her there, steady, part of this—not just the garage, but what it means.

“This place...” I say, setting the plug down, voice low but clear, “it’s not about what we lost. It’s about what we make from it.”

She shifts, stepping closer, boots scuffing the concrete. “Then let’s make something that doesn’t break.”

I nod, wiping grease on my jeans, meeting her eyes. “Drago’s not just a name anymore. It’s a choice.”

Her lips curve, faint but real, and she steps to the workbench, leaning over the engine. “Ours,” she says, voice steady, like it’s been true all along.

There’s nothing left to clean up. No more rot. Just the tools and the time to build something better.

The word settles between us, heavy like heat off a running motor, earned through every fight, every stand. I pick up a wrench, tightening a bolt, feeling the engine’s weight—solid, like us. Elara grabs a rag, wiping down a piston I set aside, her hands moving sure, like she’s done this before. She hasn’t, but she fits here, same as me.

“You ever work on one of these?” I ask, glancing at her, curious.

She shakes her head, tossing the rag down. “No. But I’m good with my hands.”

I grin, quick. “I know.”

Her laugh’s soft, rough, nudging my shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” I say, turning the wrench, feeling the bolt lock tight. “You’re stuck with me now.”

She leans closer, elbow brushing mine. “Guess I’ll manage.”

“What’s this one for?” she asks, nodding at the engine, fingers tracing its frame.

“Bike,” I say, pointing to a half-built frame against the wall, chrome catching light. “My father’s design. Never finished it. I’m picking it up.”

Her eyes follow my gesture, studying the frame. “You’re bringing it back?”

“Yeah,” I say, setting the wrench down. “Not for him. For us.”

She nods, like she gets it, and grabs another tool—a screwdriver—handing it to me. “What’s next, then?”

I take it, our fingers brushing, and point to a valve cover. “That’s gotta come off. Check the seals, make sure it’s clean.”

She steps in, helping me lift the cover, her hands steady, grease marking her skin now too. “This is new,” she says, voice quieter. “Working like this. Not fighting.”

“Feels right, though,” I say, meeting her eyes, setting the cover aside.

“It does,” she agrees, wiping her hands, chain shifting against her hip. “But you know it’s not gonna stay quiet.”

She grabs another rag, wiping down the valve cover, working beside me. “What’s this bike gonna be when it’s done?”

I pause, picturing it—sleek, black, fast. “Ours,” I say, voice low. “Something to ride when the fighting’s over.”

Her eyes meet mine, steady, like she’s seeing it too. “I like that.”

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