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Marco Ferrano. Underlined twice.

Two pages later, I find a sub-table labeled “Non-Ferrano Affiliates.” Beside that, there’s a marker note that reads: Payments forwarded: Cuba North – Javier Cruz.

My hand goes cold.

I flip the next page. More logs. Then, near the bottom of a sheet from last month, I see it.

Falcone, Chiara – status: confirmed alive

Date: three weeks ago

Amount: $25,000 – paid

I don’t move.

Don’t blink.

It’s in his handwriting. The “F” has the same loop I’ve seen him scribble a hundred times on parts receipts.

That photo wasn’t the first. They knew.

Sal knew.

I flip the next page like tearing skin. The logs that follow show exact dates matching the last three races I ran. Each entry ends in a note: “Visual confirmation. Coordinates forwarded. Payment pending.”

He’s been tracking me. Selling updates. Every race, every step I took.

My hand tightens around the edge of the binder. I close it. Not gently.

The noise bounces off the basement walls.

I sit there for a few seconds, breathing steadily, trying to feel something that makes sense.

He called me kid. Said I could stay as long as I needed. Told me Miami was a dead end for nobodies, and we were nobodies together. Made it sound like we were surviving on the same side of the line.

All this time, he fed me to the wolves. Dished out coordinates to people who wanted me caged—or dead.

I step back from the bench and stare at the bulb above me.

It sways slightly, casting shadows across the floor.

My stomach rolls.

“No more second chances,” I say to the room. “No more giving people the benefit of the doubt.”

I hear the back door click just as I drop the key.

It skitters across the floor near the bench, metal against concrete. I lunge for it, but the footsteps are already halfway down the stairs. Heavy. Intentional.

Not Sal.

I shove the ledger toward the back of the lockbox, try to slam the lid shut, but it jams on the corner of the binder. Myelbow knocks over a can of screws that clatters across the floor. No time.

The basement door swings open.

“Clara?”

I freeze.