Page 79 of Veil of Blood

My voice breaks the hush. There’s no echo. No reply. Just the residual smell of gasoline and metal heat.

I wait, letting the words hang for a heartbeat longer.

“I’m not done. But I made it.”

I shift and slide off the hood, land on my feet with a soft thud. Dust rises at my heels. I cross to the passenger seat and lean inside, surfacing a folded map from beneath my jacket. The paper crackles in my hands.

The map’s creases mark every stretch of coastline I’ve traveled. I unfold it fully on the hood. Finger-tip creases press shapes of roads and towns into my skin. I find the red marker next to my water bottle. Its cap comes off with a click.

My finger presses the tip to the highway that carried me here. A single line blossoms in red. It carves a path from the garage lot through every battle, every safehouse, every stretch of highway. It doesn’t point to one town or city. It doesn’t end at a star or an X. It simply extends onward, toasted in red ink.

My pulse ticks in time with that ribbon of ink. No destination. Just the line.

I roll the map carefully and tuck it back under my jacket. The red slash folds away, but it remains, a promise written in pigment: I choose this road. Always.

I stand again and stretch out toward the darkening sea. The wind tugs at my hair and jeans. It beckons me toward night, toward whatever comes next. I fold my arms and watch clouds drift over the moon. It peeks shyly, a pale witness to every choice.

I pause a moment longer, letting dusk settle into me. It soothes the fight in my limbs. It reminds me that every part of me made it here. Every scar. Every loss. Every triumph.

Then I turn away from the horizon and climb back into the driver’s seat. The engine’s cool, but I fire it up. The first turn of the key is a declaration. The motor purrs under the hood. My hands find the wheel. My right foot finds the pedal.

I ease onto the road. Headlights carve a path through the night. I steer clear of any finality. No road forks lead to jail or betrayal. No crossroads point back to anyone else’s choice. Only the strip of pavement ahead.

I shift into first gear and move off the turnout. Gravel scatters as wheels bite into asphalt. The muscle car responds, surging forward with every press. It carries me. I guide it with care.

Behind me, the overlook retreats. The red band of sunset dissolves into darkness. My gaze stays forward. Each mile marker flashes by in my mirror. Each one says: keep moving.

I am Chiara Falcone. I own my story. I carry no chains but my own. I am alive because I chose this road.

And I am not done.

Chapter 28 - Rocco

I stand over the engine bay of a first-year ’67 Chevy, shirt off and sleeves rolled, muscles moving in practiced rhythm. My hands work the belt across the pulleys, guiding it so it seats without chatter. I tighten the tensioner bolt by hand, then lock it down with a wrench. Each tool I reach for—feeler gauge, torque wrench, belt tension gauge—fits my palm like an extension of bone. The metal links between me and this car are solid, honest.

Sunlight streams through the high windows, cutting rectangular shafts of heat into my workspace. Dust motes drift in those beams, settling on fresh paint and polished chrome. The shop is small—half the size of my last one—but it’s mine. A crisp sign out front reads Damiani’s in red paint on white metal, swinging on its hinges with an easy certainty. Inside, the walls are bare except for tool racks, shelves holding parts still in their boxes, and a single bench against the back wall where I lay out the next project. Clean lines, organized trays, everything ready.

I drop the ratchet, step back, and pull a rag from my back pocket. I wipe sweat from my neck and smear it across my chest before I drag the cloth across my forearms. Grease streaks the rag gray; a reminder of work that refuses to disappear. I tie the rag to a hook by my workbench, then reach up to adjust a wrench on the wall—move it a half-inch left so it lines up with the rest. Order matters.

A small shelf stands just inside the office door. On it sits two items: a leather keychain with Luca’s charm dangling from a broken ring, and a blurry photograph taped to the wall behind it. The photo catches my eye every morning—a shot of Chiara,caught mid-smile, strands of her hair catching light as she turned from a rusted fender. She’s in work gloves, face smudged, proud without pretense. I step over the engine stand and run my fingertip across the charm. The metal’s worn from contact, but it still bears that stamped date. I stretch my back, turning to face the bay.

She didn’t come back. Doesn’t mean she’s gone.

I drop into a squat behind the Chevy’s front tire and slide a socket onto the axle nut. My bones pop as I shift weight, but I don’t mind. It’s honest discomfort. I crank the wrench until the nut releases, then lift it out with a magnetic tray. I slide the half-shaft free and inspect it for wear. The bearings are tight, no pitting. The axle housing needs a fresh coat of oil in the seals, so I break open a new tube of grease and pack it in. Fingers slip in ointment-slick precision, pressing each bearing in place.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. No caller ID that matters. If she called, she’d have time to talk. If she needed me, she’d have sent a message I’d see immediately. She’s been gone three weeks. I’ve found my own rhythm again.

I lean back against the wall and stretch out my arms overhead. The radio next to me sputters with static and white noise. I fiddle with the dial. No station locks in. No talk or music cuts through. I let it stay on static. That hiss feels like open space, no demands, no headlines.

A sharp rap on the service door overhead slices through the quiet. My heart tightens just for a fraction of a second before I drop the rag and step forward, knife in my pocket, wrench in hand. The door lifts, revealing a teenager leaning on a batteredscooter frame. He’s tall, thin, wears a faded T-shirt two sizes too big, and jeans that have seen better days.

“You fix anything,” he asks, voice high-pitched, “or just muscle cars?”

I wipe my hands on my jeans and slip the knife back into its sheath. Wrench goes back on the rack. I pull my shirt on, knotting it at the waist so it won’t flap when I bend over a bike. “If it’s got wheels, I’ll take a look.”

He pushes the lift pedal and rolls the scooter in. It sputters, coughs, then dies. I crouch beside it. The front wheel wobbles on its bearings. One brake lever hangs limp, cables frayed. I run a finger along the frame’s cracked paint. No rider tag on the handlebars. Whoever owned it patched it together and kept going.

The kid shifts on his feet. “You’re Damiani, right? Heard your name used to mean something around here.”

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