Page 78 of Veil of Blood

“Falcone!” he barks.

He raises the gun. I wait for him to fully clear the blind curve—just five more feet. His foot hits gravel. The moment stretches as he lifts the barrel.

I rise and swing the pipe. It connects with his wrist in one arc. A crack shatters the stall. Bone snaps. His pistol clatters across pebbles.

He howls and drops his arm. I follow through, kneeing him in the gut. He doubles, air escaping with a grunt. His temples hit the doorframe. Stars spark in his gaze. He topples into the dust.

I don’t pause. Two steps forward bring me to his face. I aim the pipe and bring it down across his shoulder. He tries to twist away, but pain anchors him. Blood blooms on his shirt. He reaches out, nails catching concrete.

“Wrong girl to follow,” I say, voice low and flat.

He gurgles, eyes wide. He doesn’t move again.

I step back, breathing steadily, no tremor anywhere. I wipe the pipe on my jeans, then pocket it. I give his shoulder one firm stomp, enough to discourage any second thoughts.

A second sedan door slams behind me. I don’t look around. I know.

I slip back into the driver’s seat, reach under the seat for my Glock. I chamber a round. It slides home with a click. I point the muzzle through the open window.

A second thug rounds the corner—gun drawn before he stops. He halts when he sees the barrel. My finger tightens.

He takes a step forward.

I fire twice.

The sedan’s rear tire bursts in response. He staggers, chest collapsing in a bloom of red, then falls over the hood. The car shudders, smoke rising from its grille.

I eject the empty magazine and stuff it into my jeans. I pocket the Glock. My heart’s calm. My thoughts are clear.

“Still got it,” I say. My reflection in the cracked mirror winks back at me. A smudge of blood stains my cheek. I swipe it away. Not because it bothers me, but because I prefer a clean line across my face.

I shift the car back onto the road. It bumps smoothly onto asphalt. I kill the ignition again, then reset it. The muscle car roars to life like nothing happened. I pull back onto the highway.

I don’t look back.

Sunset stretches ahead like an open promise. My muscle car hums along the edge of everything I’ve left and everything I choose next. I’m no longer hunted. I’m not running. I just drive forward.

The highway shrinks behind me, vanishing into cracked ribbons against scrubland. My hands rest firm on the wheel, each mile shifting the world farther away from every fight and every fear I’ve carried. The bodies I left on gravel and pavement fade already in my mirror’s curve. Their shapes slip into memory, growing distant. I don’t spare them a thought beyond what I must: I survived. I walked away.

I spot a turnout sign up ahead—painted metal, half-buried in weeds, pointing me to a steep cliff and ocean view. I pull off the highway, tires crunching on gravel. I kill the engine. For a moment, nothing hums but a breeze that carries brine and salt.

I slide out barefoot. Cool stones press into my soles. I let my jeans brush the rough ground as I step forward, each movement sure. I don’t hesitate. The overlook spreads before me: a sheer drop to dark water pounding against rocks. The sky above is wide, stretching toward dusk. There’s no presence but mine—no world but this stretch of road, this promise of distance.

I walk to the cliff’s edge and stand there, toes curled against grit. I inhale deeply, letting the draft sweep across my cheeks and through the nape of my neck. It carries the taste of survival. It sings of choice. I look out at that endless horizon. Waves surge at the base, rise, and crash in rhythms I recognize. They never pause. They never wait.

No chains. No name but mine.

I reach up and unhook the chain around my neck. It slides free with a faint clink. Rocco’s fingertips pressed here. Each link holds a memory: a night in an empty apartment, his palm steadyon my side as he promised no demands. I lift the chain to eye level and watch it catch the last light. It’s simple metal, but it’s a life lesson—lessons he gave me by letting go.

I trace my thumb along the chain’s length, inhale deeply, then tuck it inside my pocket. I don’t fasten it back. Instead, I walk to the car, slip into the driver’s seat, and pull the glovebox open. The chain slides inside, resting on maps and receipts and a faded photograph of a place I’ve never been. I close the glovebox.

I turn off the visor light so only the sunset shines through the windshield. Then I slip onto the hood of the car, legs crossed at the ankles. My toes brush the cool metal. I settle against the windshield, gaze drifting back to where I left that chain. It’s gone from my chest, but it’s not lost forever. It’s tucked away—a quiet secret for a time I choose.

The sun arcs lower, painting a band of red on the horizon. I watch it sink, slow and unwavering. A semi rumbles past on the highway below. Its horn cuts through the hush. The driver doesn’t wave. I simply watch until it disappears around a curve. No connection. No need for recognition.

I close my eyes and let the last ember of light fade. The world dims, but I stay perched on the hood, anchored by resolve.

“Luca. Rocco. I made it.”

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