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I step back and flip on the radio. Static gives way to a guitar riff. The music fills the bay again.

I wipe the transmission housing and pack away the axle parts. Every bolt, every clip, goes back in place. I close the hood on my project and turn the key. The engine growls to life, smooth and confident.

They’re still out there—Ferrano’s echo hasn’t ended. But I’m no longer part of it. My choice is here: bolts and bearings, order in made things.

Evening falls. The sky outside the windows dims. A soft knock on the side door.

I don’t reach for the knife this time.

I open the door. A woman in her twenties stands in the alley. She’s nervous, hair loose around her face. She holds out keys.

“The clutch is sticking,” she says. “Can you look at it?”

I nod. “Yeah. Bring it around.”

She walks to her dented sedan and pops the hood. Sunlight pools across chipped paint. I lean in, glance at her face. She’s steady despite the jitters.

I roll the car into the bay and cut the engine. Oil and coolant leak onto the floor. I grab a rag and wipe her warning light lens, then study the linkage.

She steps closer. “You work alone?”

I wipe my hands on a towel. “Not always.”

She nods once, as if she understands more than she lets on. Then she steps back and closes the hood.

I pick up the keychain in my palm—Luca’s charm glinting in the last light. My fingers tighten around it.

She watches me. She’s waiting.

I meet her eyes. “I’ll get it cleaned up.”

She smiles, relief pushing past her nerves. She leaves the keys on the bench.

I step to her side. “Name?”

“Marisol.”

“Okay, Marisol. I’ll have it ready.”

She nods again and slips out the door. The hush returns.

I cross to her car and kneel. The clutch cable is nearly shot. I pull a replacement from my parts rack and slide under the truck. Grease coats my arms as I swap the cable and adjust the throwout bearing.

My mind drifts, not toward revenge, but toward her—toward Chiara. Two days. A silence between us that hasn’t broken. But in this garage, I hold name after name in my hands. Each one becomes a promise.

I test the pedal. Firm. No grab. No slip. Just quiet confidence.

I stand and roll the car out. Marisol greets me with a nervous smile.

“It feels good,” she says.

“Drive it easy,” I warn. “Come back if it doesn’t.”

She starts the engine. The clutch catches. She shifts into first and pulls forward. The car rolls down the alley.

I watch her go.

I slip back inside. Rain taps against the roof. I flip the radio off and let the hush settle.