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His eyes don’t waver. “Someone has to.”

I throw it into reverse and back out without warning. He steps back fast, hand off the roof. The tires squeal against the pavement. A few heads turn. One guy hoots.

I don’t look back.

The lot shrinks behind me in the rearview.

No one chases.

I hit the road and let the car fly forward. The buildings blur. Streetlights flash past in sharp rhythm. My grip on the wheel’s too tight. My right leg’s bouncing with tension I haven’t burned off.

Javier Cruz.

He’s real. And he’s not just sniffing around. He’s got names. Pictures. Timing.

That bounty is still active. Maybe it never went cold at all.

I replay it in my head—his grin, the way he said Falcone like it tasted familiar. He wasn’t fishing. He was making a point. I’m not buried deep enough. I’ve been sloppy.

And Rocco?

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t keep being here.

But he was.

He showed up. No warning. Knife ready. Like he knew exactly how close the danger was getting. Like he expected it to find me.

Maybe it’s already found him, too.

The car’s quiet now except for the hum under my seat. I adjust my grip, lean back slightly, breathe through my nose.

I’m slipping.

Not because I couldn’t take that guy down. I could. I did. But because I hesitated. I let myself race. Let myself believe I could breathe out here.

It’s not breathing if you’re being watched.

Still.

I’m here. I’m not bleeding. I’m moving.

Still moving.

That’s what matters.

I don’t stop until I see the old overpass just outside the city grid, where the trucks park overnight and no one asks questions. I kill the lights and coast in behind a row of trailers. Engine off.

I sit in the dark for a while, windows cracked. Let the heat bleed out. Let the sweat dry on my back.

My hands finally stop shaking.

The fight’s over. For now.

But the war just clocked in.

Chapter 8 – Rocco

I don’t like this place.