Page 7 of Veil of Blood

I walk back to the side of the car, grip the pan with both hands, and ease it down onto the cart. Fluid drips in sluggish streams. I roll the cart to the side and grab the new filter and gasket kit from the shelf. As I tear open the packaging, my eyes drift back to the door.

He might come back today. Rocco. Maybe just to check on the car. Maybe to press more than that.

But he saw me. Not fully, not yet—but enough. He saw a woman who didn’t blink when a man bled out ten feet away. That kind of detail doesn’t slip past someone like him.

And he watched me long enough to start remembering.

Just another job. Fix it. Keep your head down.

I hold the gasket in both hands, line it up, and start screwing it into place.

I don’t hear the door open.

He moves quietly for a man his size.

“Thought I’d check on progress,” Rocco says from behind me.

The ratchet slips in my hand. Not far, not dangerously—but enough to catch my nerves. I keep my eyes on the engine, fingers tightening around the tool like it didn’t just almost spin out of my grip.

“You’re early,” I mutter. “Still working on it.”

I lean back slightly and reset the angle. Just enough to let my body absorb the shift in the room. The way his voice cuts through it. Grounded. Clean. He doesn’t clear his throat. Doesn’t shuffle his feet. He just is.

He doesn’t answer right away. I hear the rustle of fabric, then the soft creak of the hook near the entrance. He’s taking off his jacket. Making himself comfortable.

I don’t like that.

“You work fast,” he says.

“I work quiet. Helps with focus.”

My tone’s flat on purpose. I’m not trying to engage. I’m trying to hold a line. He doesn’t cross it, but he doesn’t leave either.

I slide the ratchet back onto the tray and reach for the torque wrench. The pressure gauge is slightly off. I pretendto recalibrate it, knowing damn well it doesn’t need adjusting. His presence makes my shoulders tighten—not in fear, just in anticipation. There’s a pattern to men like him, and this one’s smart enough not to give away which way he’s leaning.

He doesn’t talk. Just stands there. Watching.

The hum of the radio buzzes faintly from the back shelf, a low instrumental loop playing through static. The same guitar track that ran all afternoon. It was enough to calm me earlier. Now it scratches at the edge of my nerves.

I feel the pressure of his gaze settle on my back.

Not invasive. Just steady.

I exhale through my nose, keep my stance even, and turn slightly, just enough to grab my bag off the bench behind me. It’s in the way of the spare gasket kit. I tug it by the strap, intending to shove it under the shelf.

But the zipper catches.

The photo slides out before I can stop it.

It lands face-up between my boots. The color’s worn, edges soft, the print slightly curled from heat and time.

Luca.

His expression is frozen in that half-smile. One I memorized long before the fire, long before they closed the casket on an empty shell and let the rumors rot into truth.

“Shit.”

I crouch fast, snatch the photo off the floor, and straighten again in one movement.

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