Page 5

Blood spreads fast across the pavement, mixing with the runoff and streaming toward the gutter.

The gun hits the ground with a dull slap. I kick it away, out of reach.

The sedan hesitates, engine idling mid-street like they’re waiting for a chance to double back. Then it jerks into reverse, scrapes the back bumper on the curb, and bolts back the way it came. Tires squeal again. Gone in seconds.

I stay crouched.

“Get inside!” I bark, eyes scanning the street again.

But Clara’s already moved.

She’s tucked behind the large steel trash bin, crouched low, hands steady against the damp ground. Eyes clear. She’s not breathing hard. She’s not hiding. She’s observing—tracking escape angles like someone trained for this.

I stand, wipe the blade on the dead guy’s hoodie, and re-sheath it. No movement from the street. Just the sound of rain again, steady and dull, bouncing off metal and pavement.

I walk over to her.

“You alright?” I ask.

She stands up fully. No hesitation. No blood on her that I can see—just a little dirt smeared across one sleeve. Maybe from the wall. Maybe from diving low too fast.

“Yeah,” she says, tone even. “You?”

“Fine.”

I study her. The scratch on her forearm isn’t worth mentioning. Her eyes are dry. No darting glances. No tremble in her fingers. She looks like she just came off a shift, not like she watched a man bleed out two feet away.

“You’re calm for someone who just watched a guy bleed out.”

She rolls one shoulder and wipes a hand across her mouth, smearing a grease line across her cheek.

“Wasn’t my first knife fight,” she says. Then she adds, dry as sandpaper, “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

That gets my attention. Not the joke, but how flatly she delivers it. No smile behind the eyes. No nerves. No instinct to make me more comfortable. She means part of it. And she doesn’t care if I figure out which part.

I watch her for another second. Long enough to read the posture. She’s squared off, but not defensive. Like she’s used to watching backs, not covering her own.

I take a breath and nod. “Let’s keep this between us.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just pulls her hair back and tucks it under her hood.

“Sure,” she says. “Your mess, your cleanup.”

She doesn’t linger on it. Doesn’t offer to help. Doesn’t ask what it was about. Which tells me she already has ideas and doesn’t need confirmation.

I glance at the body once more. Blood’s pooled around the torso, spreading along the cracked pavement. It’ll wash away some in the rain, but not all. I’ll need to handle it tonight. Make a call. Get someone to scrub it before the morning shift joggers come through.

I step toward the sidewalk.

“See you tomorrow, maybe,” I say.

I don’t look back.

Chapter 2 - Chiara

Sockets don’t care what you’ve seen. They don’t ask questions or leave blood on your hands.

I line them up across the tray—half-inch, nine-sixteenths, five-eighths. Organizing by size, smallest to largest. Metric row below that. Ratchets laid to the side, wiped clean. I scrub a rag over the chrome head, even though it’s already spotless. Something to keep my hands busy.