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I place Luca’s charm back on the hook above the bench.

My hands are still. My breath is even.

She’s out there. Alive. That’s the only fight I ever needed to win.

I whisper it into the empty bay.

“Chiara.”

And then I turn back to my work.

Chapter 27 – Chiara

I’m alone. My rebuilt two-door muscle car hums beneath me, engine warm and steady like a faithful guardian. It’s one week since I drove away from that garage, one week since I pressed the pedal and left Chiara’s past behind. The coast rolls beside me, flat fields of salt grass bending out of reach. No buildings, no road signs—just cracked asphalt and endless sky. I like it this way.

My fingers rest on the steering wheel, fingertips tracing the worn leather grip I stitched myself. Each stitch carries a memory: nights spent in a dusty lot, welding broken panels under half-electric light. This car rose from discarded parts and oil-stained memories. It’s mine in a way the world has never been.

I tap a tempo on the spokes. The Luca charm dangles from the mirror, catching a stray beam of afternoon sun. It swings with each bump in the pavement. I whisper to it, voice low in the cab.

“You’d have hated this car.”

I lean forward, gaze fixed on the horizon where land meets light. My voice softens, more to myself than the charm.

“But you’d have told me to floor it.”

My foot slides over the accelerator. The road ahead clears, a ribbon of black cutting through tan fields. I shift gears and feel the torque rise beneath my seat. This is how I live now:engaged, aware, following a single line drawn between points where danger and freedom meet.

I’m not running. I’m just not done moving.

My thoughts drift to Rocco. Not in longing, but in quiet respect. He let me go without bargaining or claim. He didn’t demand I stay. No apology, no guilt. He trusts me enough to release me.

He let me go.

I’m grateful for that clarity. It’s how I know he’s the one.

The sky burns toward sunset. A band of orange flares across low clouds. My eyes trace its length. I breathe deeper, thumbs brushing over the wheel. Each breath reminds me of every choice I’ve made to get here.

I flick the radio knob. Static crackles. I leave it there, letting background hiss fill the cab. No songs, no voices. My own thoughts are enough.

My eyes narrow as a dark shape appears in my mirror. Far off, just beyond where the sun spills onto the road. A black sedan closes in, engine note ragged on my dash. It follows my every shift. It matches my acceleration, a shadow pressing in.

My shoulders tighten. Not in fear, but readiness.

I kill the radio. The hiss cuts away. Only the sound of wheels on asphalt fills the cockpit. I don’t hesitate.

Heading badges flash on the sedan’s grille as it rolls past my mirror. I ease the throttle and lift my foot off the pedal. Thecar slows. It stays on me. I press the pedal again. The engine roars. It swallows the reflection. It matches my pace.

I flick my gaze to a gravel shoulder by a blind curve ahead. My pulse steadies.

This far from help, there’s only me. Their car looks clean—no markings. Probably one of Ferrano’s last. He always sent men to remind me there’s no real escape.

I take the turn. The blind bend blocks any view from behind. I guide the muscle car onto the shoulder, wheels crunching gravel. I turn off the ignition. The engine’s hiss cuts out. Everything drifts into stillness.

My hand drops to the back seat. There’s the pipe I keep for times like this. It’s heavy, forged steel, wrapped in tape for grip. I lift it and move to the driver’s door. I crouch behind it, feet planted wide, pipe ready.

The blind bend hides me. The sedan’s headlights sweep across the pavement, then wheel onto the shoulder. Tires grind. It shudders to a stop. Doors pop open.

A single man steps out, pistol in hand. No words wasted. He’s in his thirties, stubble dark under sweat-stained hair. He hunts me.