Page 13 of Veil of Blood

The wrench hits his cheek with a crack—hard and fast, all the force of my shoulder behind it. His face jerks sideways. Blood sprays across the edge of the wall. He stumbles, drops the photo. His hand flies to his mouth, then comes away red.

“You—”

I don’t wait for him to finish.

I bolt.

Left foot kicks off hard. I clear the crates and lunge for the back door. It’s already cracked open from when I stepped out. I slam through it and pull it shut behind me, hand on the bolt lock, twisting it down fast.

My lungs are tight. Not panicked. Controlled. Every breath hurts from how deep I’m pulling.

I press my back to the door and listen.

Outside, nothing.

No running footsteps. No banging. Just the beat of my heart and the taste of adrenaline sour in my mouth.

I slide to the floor.

For a second, just a second, I stay there.

Then I stand.

Walk to the bench. Set the wrench down without looking at it.

My hands are shaking again.

My lungs work hard but even—controlled. There’s blood on the wrench, drying quickly, brown at the edges. I don’t look at it again.

I don’t move until I hear his footsteps.

Not the thug. He’s not coming back. Not bleeding like that.

No, the footsteps coming now are steady. Familiar. Slower. Not chasing. Approaching.

By the time the front door swings open, I already know it’s him.

Rocco steps into the garage like he’s been here a hundred times, like he never left at all. No fanfare. No warning. Just shows up, takes the room in with one sweep of those eyes, and locks onto me.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

His eyes flick to the wrench on the floor. To the smudge of blood I didn’t have time to clean. Then to my hands, still shaking even though I’m trying to hide it by balling them into fists at my sides.

Then he speaks. “You okay?”

It’s not soft. Not hard either. Just level.

My spine straightens.

“Fine,” I answer. “He was just…drunk.”

The lie hangs in the room like engine smoke. He doesn’t buy it, and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either.

Rocco steps farther inside. He’s not tense, but there’s a sharpness to the way he moves. Eyes checking the corners. The exits. The blood trail leading to the bench.

“That drunk knew your name.”

I cross my arms, keep my body square. Don’t flinch. Don’t retreat.

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