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He adds, “And you swung like you’ve done it before.”

I lift my chin.

“Self-defense,” I say. “I didn’t ask for backup.”

His mouth doesn’t twitch, but I can feel the tension deepen between us. Not angry. Not yet. Just…narrowing.

“I was down the block,” he says. “Had a feeling.”

I don’t reply. Can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse.

He glances again at the door I came through, still bolted. The alley beyond it. “You lock that behind you?”

“Of course.”

“You get a look at him?”

I pause a beat. “Mid-thirties. Cuban. Scar through the brow. Knew Javier’s name.”

That gets a flicker out of him.

“You didn’t mention that,” he says.

“You didn’t ask.”

Rocco walks toward the back of the garage, not close enough to press, but near enough that I feel him pulling the truth out of the air, piece by piece.

“Who wants you dead?” he asks.

The way he says it…not gentle. But not demanding, either. It’s the tone that gets people to tell him things without realizing it.

I hold the line anyway. “You always this nosy?”

“Only when the blood’s fresh.”

I shake my head and push off the bench, creating space again. “He won’t come back. I handled it.”

“I’m not worried about him coming back,” he says. “I’m worried about what else is coming next.”

There’s a pause. Too long.

Neither of us moves.

I can feel the shift in him. The calculation. Not suspicion anymore—certainty, building like tension in a cable, tight and ready to snap.

But he doesn’t call me on it. Not yet.

Instead, he looks at me a little longer, then says, “You handled it. Just watch your back.”

He starts toward the door. His hand’s on the knob when he pauses. “Clara.”

My name. The name I built from pieces. The name I thought I could wear like armor.

He says it like he’s peeling it off me.

I freeze.

Just for a second. One breath. But it’s enough.