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Prologue – Chiara

The socket slips.

Again.

I steady it with both hands this time and lock in the bolt with a hard twist. A short click echoes off the casing. Almost stripped it, but not quite. I mutter a curse under my breath and lean forward, tightening it the rest of the way.

The metal gives. Finally.

This one’s not a clean build. Older engine, rust in the threads, mismatched parts. But I’ve worked worse. Nothing here’s ever factory standard. Miami weather eats everything soft. Salt in the air corrodes half the things before they even roll in. The rest get patched together from whatever junkyard salvage Sal hauls in.

Still, the job gets done.

I switch to a smaller wrench, check the housing seals again, and retighten just to be sure. The fluorescent light above me buzzes every few seconds. Not enough to be broken, just enough to make you notice. Rain hits the tin roof steadily now, a dull tapping rhythm I’ve grown used to. No thunder. No wind. Just light, persistent drizzle and the scent of warm oil and soaked pavement.

It’s close enough to quiet that I can think. Not deep thoughts. Just enough to keep the parts moving in the right order. That’s the trick—stay in motion, stay in the now.

I press my shoulder into the frame and reach underneath, checking the belt tension by feel.

Too loose.

I roll back on the creeper and sit up on the garage floor. My jeans stick to the concrete in the knees, damp with something I hope isn’t brake fluid. The rag I’ve been using is dark with grime. I toss it onto the bench and scrub the back of my hand across my forehead.

The smell in here never changes. Grease. Burnt rubber. Faint mold from the leak in the corner Sal still hasn’t fixed. I don’t mind it anymore. It clings to the clothes I keep in a milk crate in the back office. It’s in my sheets. In my hair.

That’s the price of disappearing. No glamour. Just oil stains and short showers.

I grab a flathead and get back under the hood. There’s a leak around the valve cover that I don’t like. Sal’s expecting this thing to run by the weekend. He didn’t ask what name to put on the invoice. Clara doesn’t get invoices.

He pays me in cash, keeps his mouth shut, and doesn’t ask where I came from. That’s why I chose his place. No cameras, no receipts, no questions.

All he cares about is that the work’s good and the cars don’t come back.

I tighten another bolt, then reach for the light and angle it toward the back of the block.

“Check the timing belt before you forget again,” I mutter.

The words come out dry, like I’m reminding someone else. But no one else is here. Just me and the mess I’ve made of both this job and everything before it.

The mirror in the corner catches a bit of the overhead light.

I glance at it, out of habit more than anything. The thing’s rusted, cracked at the edges, barely reflective anymore. But it still shows enough. Still shows me.

I see the hoodie, sleeves bunched up around my elbows. Grease smeared across my collarbone. My face is thinner than it used to be. Sharper. No makeup. Nothing to soften the lines. Black hair pulled back with a busted elastic band. Tired eyes.

I stare for a second longer than I mean to.

“Clara gets the job done. Chiara’s dead,” I mutter.

That line again. It’s the one that keeps the rest of it down.

Months before I ever set foot in this garage, I learned to hide every part of myself. In a dimly lit studio tucked behind a suburban strip mall, I spent nights rehearsing vowel drills until my voice curled into a softer register. I wore padded vests to deepen my shoulders, then stood in front of a cracked mirror, widening my stance, shortening my strides—teaching my body new habits.

A prosthetic artist had even fitted my cheekbones with thin silicone inserts. When I finally stepped outside, I was no longer the girl who’d lost everything; I was Clara, a ghost in a grease-stained coverall.

I reach for the chain around my neck. Tug it out from under my shirt with my thumb. The metal is worn smooth. Cold. It’s the only thing I kept. The last thing he gave me before everything blew up.

“You better be resting, Luca,” I say, just above a whisper. “One of us has to.”