Page 11

It’s a kid, mid-twenties, black T-shirt, faded jeans, clean-shaven. One of Marco’s runners. Not important enough to have a name I remember, but familiar enough to recognize.

“Marco wants you,” he says. “Something about the docks.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What else is new?”

The kid shrugs and keeps walking. Doesn’t wait for a reply. Just melts back into the crowd like nothing happened.

I kill the cigarette in the tray and stand.

The second I step outside, the heat hits me across the face.

Sticky, unfiltered Miami heat—worse after midnight, when the humidity stops pretending to cool down. The kind of heatthat presses behind your knees and seeps through your collar. I roll my sleeves and let it happen.

The sidewalk’s quiet. Half-lit by a busted streetlamp. A car rolls past, windows down, speakers up—bass thumping so loud it rattles the street signs. Two drunk guys stumble across the corner behind me. One laughs, one coughs.

I pull out my phone and scroll past texts—Sal, Tino, two updates from the shipping line. One from Marco that just says, “Call me when free.”

Then I stop on Clara’s name. Not Chiara. Not the name burned into death records and stitched into the back of my mind.

Clara.

I tap the screen. Don’t send anything. Just stare.

She looked right at me in that garage. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fold. Hands steady. Voice controlled. No twitch. No hesitation.

Either she’s not her…or she’s better at lying than anyone I know.

I zoom in on the photo again. Chain visible. Same slope of the neck. Same narrowed expression. Different posture, maybe. But the structure’s there. It’s in the cheekbones, in the brow. It’s in the way she didn’t pretend to be impressed. Like she’s seen me before, maybe more than once.

Javier’s voice drifts back across my memory. “Either your people are sloppy, or your ghost is alive.”

I lock the screen and pocket the phone.

Tomorrow.

I need to see her again. Not from a distance. Not in a half-lit garage with tools between us and excuses in the air. I need her in a room with no exits, no distractions, nothing to hide behind.

And if she’s her….

If Chiara Falcone is still breathing after all this time—if she let me bury her while she disappeared with our blood still drying on her hands—then I need to know why.

And if she’s not?

Then I need to stop seeing ghosts.

I step off the curb and slide into the driver’s seat.

The engine growls to life. Familiar. Reliable.

I pull away from the curb and let the city eat my trail.

Chapter 4 – Chiara

His car’s done.

Everything under the hood’s sealed tight. Transmission flushed. Valve body rebuilt from scratch. I even repolished the torque converter housing, not because I needed to, but because it kept my hands moving. I checked the wiring twice. Rechecked the fluids. Left the keys on the bench. All in a row. Labeled. Clean.

It should be gone in an hour.