Page 85 of Veil of Blood

I take another swallow of beer and watch brake lights snake along the boulevard. A delivery truck parks at the curb. I imagine someone loading it with fresh parts—filters, belts, bearings. Each new component means another engine will runclean and strong. I see myself in each return: I rebuild engines the way I rebuild myself. With patience. With effort. With scars where the burnouts used to be.

A siren flashes red beneath me, a police cruiser speeding past. I don’t flinch. That life feels distant—an echo I survived, not an invitation. My world is here now, in measured breaths, not in urgent shouts. I breathe in again, lifting my gaze to the stars. They blink through haze and glow from streetlights, pinpricks of relief overhead.

I shift my stance, turning to face the horizon. There’s no promise that Chiara will return. No map of where she might appear. But I’m here, and this place is mine. Every hammer strike, every bolt tightened, every engine tuned—each one is a vow to keep moving forward.

My phone buzzes inside my pocket. I ignore it. Messages can wait until daylight. If it’s important, it will come again. If not, I can let it fade. My world on this rooftop is enough for tonight.

A taxi rolls up the boulevard, brakes tapping. The driver honks twice and waves at a pedestrian. Below, neon flickers over a diner sign. I remember sharing coffee there with Chiara. We never sat inside. We always drank from “for here” cups at the counter, elbows leaning against Formica. It was simple. Without promise or pretension. All I want now is that clarity again: the hum of a car, a warm cup between my hands, her presence beside me.

Stars move, or maybe I do. Clouds drift across overhead, chasing their own path. I set my beer bottle on the railing, metalresting solid. I rest my forearms on the rail, head resting on my clasped hands. In this moment, I feel…at peace.

Three months have passed since she drove away. I didn’t chase. I didn’t beg. I let her go because it was right. Because love isn’t ownership. It’s trust. And she trusted me when she chose me.

I stand and lift my bottle. I tap it once against the rail in a toast. No audience. No witness. And yet I feel the weight of every lesson I’ve earned.

To a future honest enough to hold all our scars.

I drink the last swig, then drop the bottle on the concrete. It rolls away with a faint clatter. I lean over and pick it up, then drop it into a metal bin by the access hatch. Even trash has its place here.

My boots find the hatch cover. I twist the latch and lift the panel. The ladder awaits, rungs worn but steady. I rest my hand on the top rung and glance up at the sky one last time.

Miami is alive down there. Neon, engines, voices—brilliant chaos. Up here, I found my still point. A soldier who survived his own war, who chose to keep rebuilding instead of burning. Who carries scars as proof he lived, not as weapons to hold.

I climb down the ladder, each rung whispering under my grip. My tank top catches the last pinch of breeze before it closes behind me. The rooftop slips away as I descend into my world below.

Tomorrow, I’ll light the shop, polish tools, and greet the day’s first customer. I’ll fix engines and teach a couple of kids who dream of power, of speed, of freedom. I’ll tune each car like I tuned myself—careful, honest, aware that every thread I tighten matters.

Tonight, I walk through the garage bay door. A single lamp lights my path. I flick the switch to full brightness. The workbench stands ready. My hands settle on a tool chest. I know exactly where everything is.

I breathe in the smell of oil and metal.

I begin again.

Footsteps pound the metal stairs before I hear them. I’m perched on the rooftop railing, watching the city’s lights pulse below. I take a long pull from my beer, then set the bottle down on the concrete. The echo through steel girders tells me someone’s coming for me this time.

A young man steps onto the roof, his gait uneven. Jacket torn at the collar, sleeve patched with a dark smear. He’s twitchy, scar across his cheek fresh and angry. His eyes scan the railing, then come to rest on me. He raises a pistol without hesitation.

“Damiani. You’re still breathing?” His voice cracks like a shot of cheap whiskey.

I set my jaw and straighten, one hand pressing my back into the cool metal. “Not your business.”

He swallows, fingertips brushing the trigger guard. He thinks he holds all the leverage. Too young to know this fight’s over.

He steps forward, boots clattering on the concrete. His gun swings in a wide arc, muzzle pointed at my chest. His barrel is steady, but his stance betrays nerves.

I won’t give him a moment’s advantage. The knife comes out of its sheath against the door frame before I blink. I step forward at an angle, closing ground in two long strides. His eyes widen at the knife’s flash.

He squeezes the trigger. The bullet tears past my shoulder, slamming into the railing behind me. Metal shudders. I don’t flinch. I press the blade into his ribs in one swift slash, sending him staggering back.

Blood sprays, bright against the rooftop’s grey. His pistol arm drops. He gurgles, hand reaching for his side. He looks at me, shock painted across his face in red.

I drive the knife home again, twisting. His chest meets the concrete with a wet thud. His body goes still.

I stand over him, breathing measured, even as my heart pounds. He gurgles once, then goes quiet. I step back and wipe my blade on my jeans. No celebration. Just another reminder that his world doesn’t reach me here.

“That was your last job. Should’ve quit sooner,” I say, voice low enough he barely catches it.

He doesn’t respond. His eyes stare at the sky, clouds drifting overhead. He won’t be climbing those stairs again.

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