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Rocco’s closer.

Not reaching, not breathing down my neck, but a step inside my space. I didn’t hear him move. I don’t like that either.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

His tone hasn’t shifted much, but I catch the edge of interest buried beneath it. The calculation.

“Just an old photo,” I say.

I keep my voice level and slip the picture into my back pocket, as if it means nothing. Like I didn’t just fumble the one thing I swore I’d never carry to work.

He doesn’t retreat. “He looks familiar.”

“He shouldn’t.”

Too fast. Too sharp.

I walk back to the car without waiting for his reaction. Grab the carburetor I already cleaned earlier and pretend I haven’t. Set it on the cloth like it’s a task I’m still working on. He doesn’t move.

The silence between us stretches. I keep my eyes down.

“You want an update?” I ask. “Still needs a second flush. Then another inspection pass on the valve body. Should be done tomorrow.”

“You want me to come back?”

“I want to finish the job without a second audience.”

Still no movement. I hear him shift his stance again—boots scraping the concrete once. Then twice.

“You’re good at this,” he says. “Not many people your age with hands like that.”

I glance at him just once. No smile. “Some of us didn’t grow up with a backup plan.”

It’s not meant to land as heavy as it does, but the words hang between us longer than I expect.

He nods once. Quiet.

Then he turns.

He walks out like he walked in—easy, steady, without noise or posture. The door clicks shut behind him.

I don’t breathe for four seconds.

Then I watch him through the garage window as he crosses the lot. He doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t look back. He walks like a man who’s already gotten what he needed—or who knows how to wait to get it later.

I drop my bag under the shelf and flick the volume knob on the radio up two clicks.

Noise. Motion. Routine.

I press my palms flat against the workbench and lean forward slightly.

“Don’t fall apart now,” I whisper. “Keep the lie clean.”

Chapter 3 – Rocco

South Beach feels louder after midnight.

Tourists stagger between bars, sipping overpriced mojitos and purchasing souvenir sweatshirts. Locals cut through them like they’re not even there. Salsa leaks from two clubs at once, layered over the thud of dancehall from a third. Palm trees bend under the weight of their own roots, all swagger, no grace.