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Hopefully, he stays gone, too.

I step out the back door and into the alley, dragging the collar of my shirt up to wipe the sweat from my neck. It’s humid. Not hot. Just sticky in a way that makes everything feel like it’s pressing closer than it should. The rain stopped earlier, but the puddles linger. The concrete’s still slick near the drain.

I lean against the wall and press the heel of my hand to my chest once. Just once. Then I breathe. Deep in. Count four. Out. Again.

The alley’s empty.

Mostly.

A dog barks two streets over. A car door slams faintly out front. No voices. Nothing strange. I try to focus on that—just the usual neighborhood noise, nothing more.

But I’m gripping the wrench I brought out with me like it’s a lifeline. Three-quarter inch, slightly rusted at the grip. I don’t need it out here. I brought it anyway.

Clara doesn’t get jumped in alleys. Chiara does.

And right now, Clara’s skin feels too thin.

I stare down at the pavement for a second, watching rain slide off the awning above and break into drops against the brick near my shoulder. My mind keeps flashing back to the way Rocco looked at me yesterday. The photo. The pause in his voice. The chain.

I should’ve burned the picture when I had the chance.

It’s still in my locker, tucked between the lining and the back panel. I tell myself that’s enough distance. That the hiding place is clever enough. But every time I think about it, my gut twists. Not guilt. Instinct.

Rocco didn’t come back this morning. No call. No update.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not circling.

He’ll show up when he’s ready. That’s the kind of man he is. Never when you expect. Always when your guard dips by half an inch.

A shadow shifts at the alley’s edge.

I freeze, fingers tightening around the wrench.

At first, I think it’s just a shift in light, a car turning at the mouth of the street. But the shape holds, grows, becomesa figure. Male. Hoodie. Dark jeans. Limps slightly on one leg. Right side heavier. He’s not running. Not shouting. Just moving steady.

I push off the wall, stay still.

He stops ten feet from me. “Falcone, right?” he asks.

I don’t move.

“You drive like a ghost.”

I take one step back, into the deeper shade where the door to the garage is half-blocked by a stack of crates. My fingers press into the wrench. “You’ve got the wrong girl.”

He smiles, crooked and cracked. Two of his front teeth are capped in silver. There’s a scar through his left eyebrow. The kind of face you remember if you’ve ever had to throw a punch and run.

“Nah,” he says. “Javier doesn’t miss.”

He pulls a folded photo from his back pocket and flicks it open. Holds it between two fingers like it’s casual. Just a joke. Just something funny he brought to a bar.

It’s not.

The image is grainy but familiar. It’s me—three months back, midnight race, hair tied high, one hand on the gearshift of that Camaro we rebuilt in the warehouse lot. Neck visible. Chain visible.

“Javier says you should’ve stayed buried,” he says, stepping closer.

I swing before he finishes the next word.