Page 4

“Keeps the overhead low,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Less payroll. Fewer mouths.”

I nod.

Makes sense. Still, something’s not lining up. I look at her again. She’s in the same hoodie. Grease down one sleeve, black hair tied back with a faded band. There’s a streak of grime on her cheek, like she wiped her face with the back of her hand and didn’t check a mirror. But none of it reads unprofessional.

It reads hidden.

Not sloppy. Not disorganized. Just quiet. Clean hands, clean exit.

“You work late often?” I ask.

She tilts her head. “You interested in scheduling, or just trying to figure out if I’m sleeping with the lights on?”

“I don’t ask questions I don’t need answers to.”

She meets my eyes then. First time full-on. Brown. Clear. No makeup. A line of oil at the corner of one eyelid, like she scratched it earlier without thinking.

“You’re a client, right?” she says, tone flat now. “Not a cop. Not one of Sal’s friends playing bodyguard. Just a guy with a busted transmission.”

I nod. “For now.”

She smiles, but it’s gone quickly. “Well, then we’re good.”

She walks back to the bench and taps the clipboard once, like she’s checking a mental list. No notes written down. No time logs. It’s all in her head, or she’s pretending it is. Either way, it’s tight.

I step away from the car and toward the door.

“Thanks for the work,” I say. “Shouldn’t be long.”

She’s already opening the door for me. “Right. Wouldn’t want you to forget anything else.”

The way she says it isn’t warm. Not cold either. Just neutral. Like she’s choosing every line for how fast it gets me gone.

I step back outside into the rain and let the door swing closed behind me. Clara doesn’t go in. I hear her footstepsbehind mine—measured, light, keeping a few paces back like she’s letting space happen on purpose.

I don’t rush. I check the street automatically. Residential block. Low-end commercial. A few scattered streetlights reflecting off wet pavement. No real movement, no headlights—just the thrum of the evening slowing down.

I’m still thinking about her reaction earlier. Not the startle—that was clean. But the recovery. Too fast. Too familiar. Like she’s trained herself to shift posture the second eyes land on her.

I pull out my phone again. Still there. No need to come back for it after all.

Then I hear tires.

Sharp turn. Hard acceleration. Not from down the block—closer. A black sedan skids around the corner, no front plate, headlights cutting wide across the street. The body jerks slightly as it swerves toward us.

“Rocco!”

It’s yelled from the passenger side, voice raised through the open window, gun already in hand. I move.

I drop down near the edge of the building just as the first shot rings out. Gunfire cracks through the rain, loud and messy. They’re not aiming to scare. They’re aiming to hit.

I glance back. Clara’s gone from my side.

The second man pours out of the sedan, hood up, arm raised. Short grip pistol, maybe a nine. He rushes me withouthesitation. Sloppy form. Bad footwork. He wants to kill fast and loud.

I lunge before he can steady.

Grab his wrist, twist it, drive my knife under his arm and through the ribs. He goes stiff, sucks in a breath, and buckles forward. I shift behind him, yank the blade clean, and shove him down. He collapses hard.