Page 41 of Veil of Blood

I feel the coil tighten, tightening until it snaps. I’m falling into a rush that burns bright. He stays steady, anchoring me, until I break apart in sweeps of tremors.

I collapse against him, legs still wrapped, as sweat beads on my skin. He holds me close until the wave passes. Then he shifts, pulling out and holding me in his arms once more.

We lie like that, heartbeats syncing again, braced against each other. My hair sticks to his neck. He brushes fingers across my back, tracing every curve.

I lean back and look at him, chest heaving. He tucks my hair behind my ear, brings his forehead to mine.

“Chiara,” he whispers. Not an accusation. Not a warning. A statement of truth.

My heart twists. I cup his face. “Rocco,” I reply, voice soft.

A sudden spark crackles from the radio on the shelf. Static gathers and bursts into Javier’s voice. “Falcone. You hear me? I gave you a chance. You’re mine now.”

I tense. Which code does he dial? I reach for the radio. Rocco slides off the cot, grabs my hand.

“We end this. Now,” he says.

“Together,” I answer, clutching his hand.

Rocco lifts his gun. I touch my chain—Ferrano silver, a weight I own now. I let it rest against my chest.

Chapter 12 – Rocco

I step into the room and click the deadbolt. Outside, a red “No Vacancy” sign buzzes, its glow streaking across threadbare sheets. The ledger lands on the pillow with a dull thump, pages rustling with each breath.

Chiara stands by the bathroom door. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest. She watches me without blinking, eyes flicking briefly to the ledger, then back. Behind her, the door rattles.

I slip out of my jacket and let it fall on the nearest chair. Its leather cushions sag under the weight. I light a cigarette in front of the mirror. The flame casts my reflection against the grimy glass: tired eyes, set jaw, hand on the lighter. I inhale, hold it, then exhale in a long, steady line.

She’s alive. In front of me. And it still doesn’t feel real.

I stub the cigarette and crush it in the tray. I watch Chiara’s reflection as I turn. My gaze drifts to her arm, sleeve rolled up, where a bruise blooms dark and purple.

I stub out my cigarette against the metal tray and let the smoke curl upward. As I turn back to Chiara, I notice the bruise—her sleeve rolled past her elbow, a dark purple blossom spreading across her forearm. I hadn’t seen it before.

“You’re hurt,” I say, stepping closer.

She hitches her shoulders and tries to pull the sleeve down. “It’s nothing.”

I shake my head and crouch beside her. “Show me.”

She winces as I lift her arm, inspecting the bruise. “I didn’t have that earlier,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.

Her eyes flick away. I reach for the first-aid kit on the dresser—gauze, antiseptic, medical tape. I open a wipe and dab lightly at the worst part of the bruise. She flinches, but not because it stings—because I’m touching her.

“Chiara,” I say gently, “when did you get this?”

She exhales, stiff-shouldered. “I—was trying to move some equipment in the garage. Didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” Her voice wavers.

“Dragging heavy stuff by yourself?” I press the fresh gauze over the bruise and wrap it with tape. My fingers linger on her skin, careful. “You could’ve broken something worse.”

She watches me work, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

I finish bandaging and hold her gaze. “You don’t have to handle the heavy work alone,” I tell her. “I can take care of that.”

Her eyes soften, and for a moment, I see relief mingled with something fragile—trust. I tuck the kit away and stand, keeping my hand on her arm until she nods.

“You owe me a headache later,” she says quietly, but there’s gratitude in her tone.

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