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I slide down onto the cot again, elbows on my thighs, head in my hands. My mouth is still damp. My shirt’s wrinkled. My heart hasn’t slowed once since he walked in.

None of this should’ve happened.

I rub at my face like I can wipe it off me. All of it.

The door slams again.

Not the back.

Sal walks in with a clipboard, reading it like nothing in the world could possibly matter more than whatever scribble’s on the last line.

“Got a pickup in an hour,” he says, not looking up. “You good?”

I swallow and force my voice to hold. “Yeah. Fine.”

He gives me a grunt and walks through toward the hallway, muttering something about brake pads and idiot drivers.

He’s gone in seconds.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

“You idiot,” I whisper to myself.

I lean back slowly, spine against the wall, legs stretched out in front of me. The bulb above buzzes faintly, casting hard shadows on the floor.

My hand shakes as I wipe at my mouth with the back of it.

“It was supposed to be done,” I say under my breath. “Eight years gone, and I let him back in with one look.”

I sit there for another minute. Maybe ten. I don’t count.

The cot creaks when I shift. My shoulder hits the wall again. My chain slides along my collarbone, and I catch it between two fingers without thinking.

Rocco touched this chain like it meant something.

He said my name like he still owned a part of it.

And I let him.

I don’t finish the thought. I don’t want to.

I reach up and flip the light off.

The backroom drops into gray. I lie down on the cot and stare at the ceiling through the dark. The window’s cracked, and I can hear cars passing on the next block.

For once, I don’t imagine they’re chasing me.

But that’s not comfort.

It’s warning.

He’ll be back.

And next time, I won’t have a wrench in my hand.

Chapter 7 – Chiara