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She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t crouch to pick up the wrench. Just stays standing. Tense. Her eyes are locked on mine, and for a moment, I see something flicker in them—fear, maybe, or something deeper, something she’s buried so long it’s almost forgotten.

“To you, it’s a name,” she says, her voice quiet but cutting. “To me, it’s survival.”

I let that hang, the weight of her words settling between us like dust after a storm.

Then I nod. Step back half a pace, giving her the space she’s demanding without saying it.

“You ever drive a street race outside Hialeah?” I ask, shifting gears, my tone lighter but still probing. “Black car. Number scratched off the side?”

Her throat moves. Just once. No answer. Her silence is louder than any words could be.

She turns, grabs the keys off the pegboard, and drops them into my hand. Her fingers don’t linger, don’t brush mine. It’s a clean handoff, like she’s closing a deal and nothing more.

“Take it,” she says. “It’s done.”

I watch her for another beat, searching her face for something—anything—that might give her away. But she’s locked down tight, her expression unreadable.

“You sure you’re done?” I ask, my voice soft, almost a challenge.

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just walks back to the workbench, sets both hands flat on it, and keeps her head down like she’s looking for a bolt she lost in thought, or maybe something else she’s trying not to face.

I head toward the door, the keys heavy in my hand.

Hand on the handle, I stop.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she says, voice low, barely carrying across the garage.

I turn back, my eyes finding her silhouette against the workbench, the light casting long shadows across the floor.

“Neither did I.”

He’s not letting this drop.

Rocco’s already turned toward the door once, but he’s still here—still looking at me like the space between us is something he can close with one more question. I can feel the shift in him. He wants to ask. Maybe more than ask.

I don’t wait for it.

“You got something else to say?” I ask.

My tone isn’t warm. It lands sharper than I mean, but I leave it. I’m tired of trying to soften things for men who think the truth is theirs to demand.

Rocco doesn’t flinch.

“I think you do,” I add.

He takes half a step forward, doesn’t speak yet, but I know it’s coming. His posture shifts, like he’s about to cut through everything I’ve put up since the day I took the name Clara and swore to bury Chiara so deep, even I couldn’t find her.

Then it happens.

The back door crashes open, a metal-on-metal slam that cuts through the garage like a warning shot.

Sal stomps in, carrying a box half-filled with parts and receipts. One of the shocks inside rolls up and taps the side as he sets it down with a grunt. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand and gives Rocco a quick glance, then barely looks at me.

“Crew’s calling, Damiani,” he says, already turning toward the office. “Docks, probably.”

Rocco mutters something under his breath.

“They always wait until you’re halfway out the door,” he says.