Page 115 of Blood Debt
My eyes sweep the space. Bodies litter the floor—three men, blood pooling beneath their motionless forms. My hand flexes instinctively, searching for a weapon.
Matteo notices. His mouth twists in a humorless grin. “Don’t thank me all at once. I pretended to pass out when they brought us in. Held my breath long enough to fool them. Lucky for us, I learned how to do that when I was a kid—used to hide underwater for minutes during games in Sicily.” His voice grows rough. “When they turned their backs, I made sure they didn’t walk out of here.”
I lean back against the wall, sucking in breath, my body aching, every muscle heavy. “And me?” I manage, jaw tender with every word.
He glances at my bruised face, then shrugs almost sheepishly. “You wouldn’t wake up. So…I did what I had to.” His hand lifts, palm still red from striking me. “Slapped the hell out of you until you started breathing right again.”
A bitter laugh escapes me, swallowed quickly by pain. “You hit like a jealous lover.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but his eyes flicker with something—relief, guilt, loyalty all tangled together.
He crouches, rummages through one of the dead men’s jackets, then presses something into my hand. A pistol, its chamber half full. A knife follows, slick with blood but sharp enough.
I curl my fingers around the steel, my pulse steadying as the old familiarity slides back into place. “Good,” I whisper, my voice low, lethal. “Now we hunt.”
The pistol feels solid in my grip, the knife a cold shadow in my left hand. Matteo mirrors me—gun in one hand, dagger in the other. His face is smeared with blood, but steady, unreadable, the same mask he’s worn in every war we’ve fought side by side.
“Let’s find my wife and kid,” I growl, the words ripping out of me like an oath.
Matteo only nods. We push through the iron door, stepping into a dim corridor that reeks of sweat and metal. The silence doesn’t last.
Shouts. Boots pounding. Shadows stretch across the concrete walls—armed men coming fast.
“They know we’re up.” Matteo’s voice is grim, clipped.
The first three come around the corner. I don’t think; I move. My gun cracks once, twice—two men drop, the third ducks behind a pillar. Another rushes Matteo with a blade. Matteo blocks, twists, and buries his dagger into the man’s gut. Blood sprays, hot and dark.
I’m on the third before he can reload, slamming him against the wall. His skull cracks against the concrete, my knife finishing what the impact started.
Another wave. Five this time. Bullets scream past us, chipping stone. Matteo dives, firing low, clipping one man in the thigh. I grab another by the wrist, twist until his bones snap, and fire point-blank into his chest.
It’s chaos, but it’s ours. Years of trust keep us moving as one—my blind spot is his target, his stumble is my cover. We move like a machine forged in blood.
The last man falls, gagging on his own breath. Silence. Only our ragged breaths remain.
Then—footsteps. Lighter. Matteo lifts his gun instantly, but I hold out my arm. “Wait,” I whisper, eyes narrowing.
It’s not the heavy stomp of soldiers. It’s…quicker, fragile.
We press along the wall, cautious. The sound grows closer—small, hurried steps. And then—
A figure barrels around the corner and collides straight into my chest.
She falls back from the impact, a tiny frame crumpling on the dirty floor. My breath stops. My heart claws up my throat.
“Bianca….”
I’m on my knees before I even think, scooping her into my arms. She squirms, wide hazel-green eyes glistening with terror, and tries to wrench free.
“No—no, don’t run,” I murmur, gripping her gently but firmly. My voice cracks, gentler than it’s ever been. “It’s me. It’s okay. We’re the good guys, tesoro. We want to help you.”
Her gaze flicks nervously to Matteo, who stands just behind me, his pistol still raised. He sees her fear and—God bless him—slowly lowers it, tucking the gun behind his back. His lips stretch into something that might be a smile, awkward and forced.
“Hey, kid,” Matteo mutters, voice low, almost shy. “We’re here for you.”
Bianca trembles in my arms, staring at him, then at me. I smooth her hair back, holding her close, my chest tightening until I can hardly breathe.
I have her. My little girl.
