The morning air had teeth. Anna stepped out of her apartment in a thin white t-shirt and faded high-waisted jeans, the cuffs rolled once to show the delicate leather straps of her sandals. Her toes, painted a defiant red, curled against the cold concrete as she hurried down the steps. She hated shoes that hid her feet, even when the wind cut straight through the open sides and made her arches ache.

The little Lancia Fulvia waited at the curb exactly where she’d left it, low and prim and butter-yellow, the chrome winking like it was in on some private joke. 1972 Coupe, 1.3 liters of willing madness. She’d bought it the week she turned thirty, the week she decided life was too short for reliable cars. She loved the way it smelled (old leather, warm oil, a ghost of her own perfume baked into the seats). She loved the narrow wooden wheel, the way the whole car seemed to vibrate with anticipation when she turned the key.

She slid in, bare ankles brushing the cold metal of the floor-mounted accelerator, and pulled the door shut with that perfect Italian clack. Key in, one gentle pump of the pedal to set the choke, and…

Nothing.

Just the starter: whirr-whirr-whirr, bright and healthy and utterly useless. The engine didn’t cough, didn’t stumble, didn’t even pretend to try.

Anna frowned, a small crease between her brows. “Come on, darling,” she murmured, the way other people talked to cats. Another twist of the key. The starter spun again, cheerful, mocking circles. She gave the pedal two quick pumps this time, felt the linkage move sweetly under her sandal, heard the faint hiss of the carb. Still nothing.

The cold started to creep up her legs. She shifted in the seat, jeans rasping against cracked leather, and tried again. And again. Each time the starter whirred like a dentist’s drill and the engine stayed dead, her stomach tightened a little more.

By the fifth attempt the frown had turned into something sharper. She could feel heat rising in her chest, the same heat that flushed her cheeks when someone cut her off in traffic. She pumped the pedal harder now with quick, irritated stabs, heel lifting off the floor, toes flexing against the thin strap of her sandal. Whirr-whirr-whirr. Nothing. Whirr-whirr-whirr. Nothing.

“Seriously?” she said aloud, voice low, dangerous. The word fogged in the cold air.

She pictured the day ahead (coffee with a gallery owner who already thought she was flaky, a noon meeting she couldn’t miss) and felt the anger bloom hot and sudden behind her eyes. Her foot slammed the accelerator to the floor once, twice, held it there while the starter screamed. The battery was strong; the sound never changed, never faltered, never led to even the smallest pop from the exhaust.

Anna let go of the key and sat very still, breathing through her nose. Her hands were clenched around the thin wooden rim of the wheel so hard her knuckles looked bloodless. She had no idea Eric (smirking, petty Eric three houses down who still nursed some ancient grudge because she’d once laughed at his Porsche) had slipped out at dawn and lifted the distributor rotor with two fingers, dropping it into his pocket like a trophy.

All she knew was that her car (her beautiful, temperamental, adored car) was refusing her. Betraying her. And every spin of that healthy, hateful starter was another twist of the knife.

She slammed her palm against the wheel. The horn gave a short, pathetic honk that sounded as wounded as she felt.

“Fuck,” she hissed, the word sharp enough to cut glass. Then quieter, almost pleading: “Please.”

One more try. Key turned. Foot pumping furiously now, sandal slapping against the pedal, sole squeaking on metal. Whirr-whirr-whirr.

The Lancia stayed silent.

Anna sat back, chest rising and falling fast, cheeks burning despite the frost on the inside of the windshield. Her anger was bright and clean and useless, a flare in the dark. She stared at the lifeless gauges, at the delicate needle of the temperature gauge that would never climb today, and felt something childish and furious rise in her throat.

She didn’t cry. Anna didn’t cry over cars.

But for a long moment, toes numb in her pretty, impractical sandals, she came close.

She left the key dangling in the ignition like an accusation and stepped out, slamming the Fulvia’s door so hard the little car rocked on its springs. The cold bit at her exposed toes instantly, but the anger was hotter. She crossed the street in long, furious strides, sandals slapping the pavement, jeans brushing together with a dry hiss.

Eric’s house looked smug behind its manicured hedge. She didn’t bother with the bell. She hammered the door with the side of her fist, three sharp blows that rattled the frosted glass.

He opened it wearing a silk robe the color of dishwater and a smile he probably practiced in the mirror.

“Anna. You’re up early.”

She didn’t waste breath on hello. “Give it back.”

His eyebrows went up in theatrical innocence. “Give what back?”

“You know exactly what.” She took one step closer; the height difference meant she had to tip her chin, but the look in her eyes made up for it. “The rotor. Out of my distributor. Now.”

Eric leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “That’s quite the accusation. Got any proof, or are we just having a tantrum in open-toed shoes on a thirty-degree morning?”

Her toes were, in fact, turning the color of her nail polish, but she refused to shift her weight. “I don’t need proof. I know it was you because you’re the only man enough to screw with a woman when her engine’s cold and she can’t chase you.”

Something flickered across his face (satisfaction, maybe, or the cheap thrill of being right about her temper). He let the silence stretch just long enough to be unbearable.

Then he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out the small black plastic rotor, spinning it on one finger like a coin trick.

“This what you’re looking for?”

Anna snatched it before he could pull it back. The part was still warm from his pocket. She closed her fist around it so hard the edges bit into her palm.

“You’re pathetic,” she said quietly.

Eric’s smile thinned. “You laughed at my car.”

“I laughed at you. The car was collateral damage.”

She turned to go. He called after her, voice sharpening. “You think that rust bucket is so special? It’s a thirty-grand ego trip with drum brakes.”

Anna paused at the bottom step, looked back. The morning light caught the fury in her face and made it something almost beautiful.

“It starts when I ask it to,” she said. “Unlike some people.”

She walked away without waiting for an answer, sandals smacking cold pavement, rotor clenched in her fist like a beating heart she’d just ripped out of him.

Behind her, Eric shut the door harder than he meant to.

Two minutes later the Fulvia coughed once, twice, then barked into life with its usual throaty, offended roar. Anna let it idle high, revving it just enough to make the windows rattle up and down the street. She caught her own eyes in the rear-view mirror (bright, alive, victorious) and smiled with all her teeth.

Then she slipped the little car into first, toed the accelerator with her freezing, triumphant foot, and left a patch of rubber and a cloud of blue smoke hanging in the cold air like a signature.