Page 2

My throat tightens. I press the pendant flat against my sternum and tuck it away again. No room for that now. The past stays in the past. If it doesn’t, it’ll bury me.

The sound cuts through the quiet, just a shift. One footstep outside the door.

I stop moving, wrench in hand, held loose.

Another step. Not a shuffle. Not like Sal’s dragging heel. Firmer. Balanced. Heavy enough to hear through the rain, not heavy enough to be careless.

I exhale once through my nose and slide the wrench off the edge of the engine bay, fingers closing around it in a familiar grip. I don’t lift it yet. I just keep it at my side. Elbow bent. Ready, if I need it.

My eyes flick toward the gap under the garage door. Nothing. No shadow. No silhouette. Whoever it is knows how to move without being seen.

That’s not good.

I keep my voice even. “If it’s another drunk off Calle Ocho, I swear—”

The door opens.

He steps in like it’s nothing. No knock. No name. Just the sound of rain behind him and boots that leave a clean trail across the concrete.

He’s soaked. Not dripping, just enough to make him look like he walked through the street without a hood, without caring. He scans the space once, quick, efficient. Doesn’t look at me twice. That should help. It doesn’t.

I recognize him instantly.

Rocco Damiani.

Same build. Same way of standing—still, like the room’s waiting on him instead of the other way around. The leather jacket is worn down at the collar, zipper half stuck. His hair’s shorter than it used to be. Beard’s new. Not full, but enough to age him. Still has that walk, though. That calm, even pace that always made people shut up before he even said a word.

He doesn’t know me. Not like this. Not here.

He doesn’t pause to take a better look. Just nods toward the garage door behind him.

“Transmission’s out,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Low, clipped. “Sal said you’d know your shit.”

I don’t let anything show.

I keep my eyes on the toolbox in front of me and move slowly, like I’ve got no reason to react. He’s just another job. Just another body walking in off the street.

“Guess he told the truth for once,” I say, grabbing a clean rag to wipe the wrench in my hand. “Leave the keys.”

Rocco pulls them from his jacket pocket and sets them on the workbench. They land with a soft clink, the fob scratched and old. My fingers twitch when he steps back, like some part of me still expects a fight or a kiss or both.

He doesn’t move away right away.

Instead, he watches me for a second too long. Eyes narrowed slightly. Not suspicious. Just…off.

“Have we met before?” he asks.

“No.” I don’t look up. I pretend to double-check the bolts on the bench vise. “You one of those types who flirts by asking boring questions?”

There’s a pause. Then a soft laugh. Just once. It barely lifts the tension.

“Just déjà vu,” he says. “No offense.”

None taken. That’s what I want—déjà vu. A face he might’ve seen in a crowd. Not one he’s touched. Not one he’s watched bleed.

I keep quiet.

He turns a little, like he’s about to head out, but something keeps him there. His fingers hover over the doorknob. He doesn’t face me directly this time. Just over the shoulder, voice casual, he asks, “You’re fast, right?”