Page 56 of Veil of Blood

After a while, she lifts her head and rests her hand on the back of my neck. “I’m…not perfect at this,” she says. “Trust, I mean.”

I press a kiss to her forehead. “Neither am I. But we’ll figure it out.”

She closes her eyes, nodding. I stroke her hair, savoring the quiet. The rain that pounded earlier has stopped. A distant siren wails, slicing through the motel’s hum. It reminds us that our choices echo beyond these four walls.

She pulls back slightly, chain glinting at her collarbone. “You’re mine tonight,” she whispers. “Doesn’t mean I can promise tomorrow.”

I tighten my hold, heart twisting. “Tonight’s enough.”

She closes her eyes again, breathing in my warmth. We stay in that embrace, bodies pressed together, hearts aligned. Tension loosens from her shoulders; mine follow. The war rages outside the door, but here, in the dark, we find a fragile calm.

Neither of us moves for a long stretch. Our own quiet conversation pulses in every gentle touch and breath. The flame that ignited between us still burns—steady, real. It isn’t fire that consumes; it’s heat that sustains.

Outside, the city never fully sleeps. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional shout from a passerby remind us that the world awaits. But in this room, with her in my arms, that world fades to whispers at the edges of dawn.

We hold each other until every tremor of fear subsides. Until vulnerability feels like strength. Until we believe that—even for one night—peace is possible.

Chapter 19 – Chiara

I pull the Charger into the staging area behind the starting line. Engines roar around me, tires spin on steaming asphalt, and heat rises in waves off the pavement. My hoodie is pulled tight, hood low, hiding my face. I kill the ignition and sit in the quiet cab, heart hammering.

Rocco slides across the seat beside me, scanning the crowd. His hand rests on the dash, knuckles white. He glances at me. “This is the dumbest place to hide,” he says.

I smile without humor. “Exactly why it works,” I reply. “No one looks for prey in a pack of wolves.”

He doesn’t argue. He tucks his pistol under his jacket and nods. His gaze returns to the racers clustered ahead. I shift in my seat and check the chain at my collarbone, then press my fingers against the scar on my neck. Both reminders of why I can’t stay hidden.

I reach for my helmet, fingers steady. I press the strap under my chin and click it into place. The visor snaps down. Inside, the world narrows to gauge, pedal, and transmission. I slip the chain inside my shirt, letting it rest against my ribcage.

Rocco leans in close, voice low against the rumble of engines. “You sure?”

I exhale, breath warm against the visor. “No.”

His hand drops. “You?”

“Never.”

He presses my shoulder, firm. Then he steps back into the passenger seat. I close my eyes for a second and center myself. The pack in front of me revs up in unison, a chorus of metal and promise. Among them, the Ferrano muscle car snarls like a beast biding its time.

A starter raises his hand, and the crowd falls silent. The green flare arcs into the sky, hissing as it unfolds. Engines snap to life. I grip the wheel. My foot presses the gas. The Charger launches forward, body jerking as tires spin against the asphalt.

Rocco hunkers down and scrapes his palm across the dash. We clear the line in a single roar. I shift gears, balancing throttle and clutch as the pack surges ahead. The world contracts to corners and curves, to the feel of the steering wheel under my fingertips.

“This isn’t running,” I think. “This is mine. Speed is mine.”

The first lap unfurls in a blur of motion. I’m not first, but I’m up near the front. The Charger growls under heavy load, its engine note alive and hungry. Sparks of heat crackle down the exhaust as I hug the inside line, squeezing every ounce of grip.

Rocco points over my shoulder. “Three cars back. That’s Ferrano muscle.”

My pulse spikes. I glance to the side and catch sight of the black hood and signature emblem. He’s slipped into the pack. “He followed us here?” I shout over the engine’s roar.

Rocco shakes his head. “No—he owns this now.”

Ownership, he said. Every mile here belongs to Ferrano. His reach stretches farther than I expected. I press the wheel until it bites into the pavement. Every shift is a declaration that I belong here, too.

The second lap begins. Cars flash past in neon streaks. I focus on braking zones and apexes. A rival car creeps closer on my right. I feel its presence like heat against my side panel.

Then I hear it: “Falcone!”

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