Page 52 of Veil of Blood

My gaze is fixed on the horizon, where the first hints of dawn blush the sky. “Then we’ll be waiting.”

Chiara eases the car into gear. Her headlights carve a path across the dock’s broken boards. As we pull away, I watch the container fade behind us—the site where we killed a ragged stand-in—and feel the hunt’s echo thrumming in my veins. Dino Ferrano may have slipped away again, but every step leaves a mark. As long as he lives, our war isn’t over. And we’ll burn every dark corner to find him next.

Chapter 17 – Chiara

The sky above Miami’s skyline is an empty pale that hints at dawn. I’m perched on the rooftop railing of the garage where once I worked as Clara, hanging signs and fixing transmissions. Now, every bolt and beam seems stained by memory, by the names in that ledger Rocco carries for me. Concrete at my back feels solid, but the knot in my chest never loosens.

Below, the city emits a muted roar—horns, engines, distant sirens, voices that drift up in waves. Traffic threads along Biscayne, streetlights flicker off as day breaks. The world after a long night of violence unfurls around us. I pull my knees in close and settle my weight on the balls of my feet, arms wrapped around my shins. Every breath tastes of salt from Biscayne Bay and the diesel fumes from trucks below.

I haven’t slept. Neither has Rocco. We climbed here hours ago, leaving bodies, blood, and betrayal behind on the Ferrano docks. Marco is dead. Javier too. Sal’s corpse lies where it fell. The only one left is Dino, and as far as we know, he is on the run. And before the first light, we slipped away. In that time, the ledger changed hands, sealed away in the trunk of our car. Its pages hold every promise broken, every life sold.

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. My shirt clings damply to my side. Beneath it, Luca’s chain hangs heavy, bringing his memory close to my skin. I’m still here—alive—but part of me floated away with the knife that claimed so many lives last night.

Rocco steps behind me, boots resting against the rooftop’s edge. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough: a steady force behind my tension, a promise that I’m not alone. I feel his gaze on me, silent questions in his posture. I lift my head and let the light edge my lashes.

I clear my throat. Words arrive in clipped fragments. “You knew.”

He shifts, leaning slightly on his heel. He studies me for a beat. “Yeah,” he says, voice low.

I stare out over the concrete canyons that once felt like home. Now they look alien. “And you let me lie to your face,” I say.

He steps forward until his boot nearly rests on mine. “You were alive,” he replies quietly. “That was enough. I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would.”

I swivel to face him, chest tight. “You left me.”

His jaw moves a fraction—anger or regret, I can’t tell. “I buried you,” he says, eyes unwavering.

My pulse drums. “Not the same thing.”

He holds my gaze, as though measuring my pain. “No. But I’d do it different now. I stayed. I’m still here.”

Rooftop rail behind me almost looks fragile in that moment. I lean back to rest my palms on its worn concrete. The sky’s pale edges brighten. I watch a helicopter trace over the bay, searching perhaps for ghosts of the night before.

I’m still bruised in every sense. Fear and defiance war inside me. But Rocco’s confession threads through my thoughts, an anchor. I flex my fingers against the railing, taste salt on my lips.

He crouches next to me, pressing his back to the rooftop wall. No pity in his posture, just quiet solidarity. He doesn’t hold my hand. He waits.

I watch his hair catch the rising light, brown with flecks that shine gold. I feel a stab of tenderness, as if that last night’s violence threatens to wash away any softness between us. But beneath the tension, something real grows.

I draw in a breath. “Stay,” he murmurs, voice almost lost in the coupe wind and traffic hum.

That word expands inside me. My hands smooth over the chain at my collarbone—Luca’s last gift, unwittingly. Running from him, I wore that chain for protection. Now I wear it as purpose. “I can’t,” I say, tone firm. “Because you make it harder to leave.”

He shifts closer. One arm drapes around my shoulders. The strap of my bra peeks from under my shirt. He holds me firmly but gently. “Then don’t leave.”

I rest my head against his chest, feeling its steady beat. My hair brushes his neck, tickling. For long moments, I let myself breathe his warmth. I taste hope, hesitant and fragile.

I lift my face. “There’s work ahead,” I say. “We need to finish this.”

He nods and brushes hair from my forehead. “Together.”

I meet his eyes. “Together.”

We sit in that unspoken truce. Dawn’s light shifts to a pale blue, then threads of sun fan across the horizon. The city wakes. Our peace holds, however tentative.

I slide one hand into his. His fingers lace through mine, pressing. I focus on that contact. Warmth pulses through my palm and climbs up my arm.

He stayed. He didn’t fix anything. But he stayed.

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