Page 86 of Veil of Blood

I grab him under the arms and drag him toward the edge. The moonlight catches the smear of blood across his chest. I half-lift him so his head clears the parapet. The city blooms beneath. I drop him onto a folded tarp I stashed earlier—a scavenged piece of plastic that hides a lot. He slides into its folds.

I don’t stop to clean up. His blood soaks into the tarp. I fold it over him once, then twice, tucking him into a final bundle. He looks like a hollow man when I’m done.

I return to the railing and sit. My legs hook over the edge. The breeze moves past my bare feet. I reach into my pocket and pull out the leather keychain. Luca’s charm rests there, looping between my fingers. I press the metal into my palm until I feel its cool surface in every ridge.

“Still got it, sweetheart,” I say to the charm, speaking softly but clearly enough for the night to pick up.

I lean back against the railing, arms behind my head. My shoulders loosen. My gaze lifts to the stars. They blink down through a haze of urban glow. I don’t hope for anything. I don’t call out. I’m simply here.

I let my breath settle. I feel each rib expand and contract. I feel the metal railing beneath my hands. I hear distant horn blasts and laughter echoing between buildings.

I’m not haunted by those I’ve killed. I’m not chasing losses or praying for return. I’m building homes—one engine at a time.

She’s not coming back. That’s okay. She’s free. And me? I’m not chasing ghosts. I’m choosing to stay.

I sit that way until the first hint of dawn darkens behind skyscrapers. The city’s hum pulses in time with my heartbeat. I pull the keychain close once more, turning it in my palm.

“Go far, Chiara. And if you ever turn around—this place’ll still be here,” I whisper.

The rooftop offers no applause, no promise of future battles. It stands witness to a man who survived, who chose to protect his peace, who found a quiet strength that never needs his knife. I rise, tuck the keychain into my pocket, and head down the ladder.

Below, my shop waits. Engines, tools, and open doors. Here, I’ll keep working. Here, I’ll keep breathing. And here, I’ll keep my promise.

Epilogue – Rocco

I turn the key in the front door just before first light. My rag wipes across my palms, leaving streaks of oil behind. Above the bay doors, the faded neon sign hums quietly: Damiani’s – Built by Hand.

Inside, everything’s in its place. Tools hang on pegboards, parts line the shelves, and the workbench is spotless. On a small wooden ledge by the office window sits a low-resolution photograph of Luca, Chiara’s leather loop with Luca’s charm, and a crumpled matchbook from the dive bar where I first saw her, rifle in hand, unafraid. I run my finger along the edge of the charm.

I tuck the memory back and crawl under a ’69 Mustang. The socket wrench clicks as I adjust the sway-bar link. The radio murmurs low, classic soul filling the space without static or interruption. I hum along to a familiar riff.

“Not your kind of car, Falcone,” I say out loud. “Too refined. You liked ’em rough.”

I slide out, stand, and stretch. A single knock echoes through the bay. My heart shifts, but I don’t flinch. I keep the rag in one hand, the other resting on a wrench.

“Come on in,” I call, voice steady.

The door swings open.

Chiara stands in the threshold, jeans dusted with road grit, hair pulled back. She’s carrying a battered duffel—no hint ofapology on her face, only intent. She looks at the shelf. Then at me.

I sit up against the fender, shirt still smeared with grease. “Didn’t think you’d—”

Her gaze drops to my hands. “I’m here.”

I stand, my rag dropping to the concrete. The morning sun spills through the windows, lighting her from the side. I don’t ask what changed. I just ask what matters.

“Is this permanent?” I say.

She brushes past me, closes the door. The duffel thuds at my feet. She meets my eyes—steady, real. “We’ll see.”

I let that hang between us. Then I step closer and kiss her. No hurry, no need to prove anything. Just a promise made on lips.

Later, we sit on the Mustang’s hood, legs dangling over the side. The garage warms around us, engine heat still in the pavement. Chiara unzips her duffel and pulls out a stack of license plates—she’s re-registered again, but this time, they’ll stay with me.

I slide an arm around her shoulders. “What’s next?” I ask.

She rests her cheek against my chest, breath steady. “Whatever we build.”

Light shifts through the windows. She plays her fingers along my forearm, then lifts the leather loop from her pocket and holds it between us. Luca’s charm glints.

I nod. “Good.”

She smiles, leaning up on her elbow. “Ready to make this permanent?”

I catch her hand, tug her close. “I think so.”

Our lips meet again, a final kiss that seals every mile and every choice that brought us here. When we part, it’s only to rest our foreheads together in easy quiet.

The garage hums with possibility. Tomorrow, we’ll open the doors, fix engines, teach a few kids, and keep building. But for now, we simply hold each other, two pieces that fit better together than apart.

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