Page 120 of Blood Debt
I pull him into my lap, my hands pressing uselessly against the wound. “No, no, no—don’t you dare. Don’t you leave me!”
His hand trembles but finds my face, rough palm cupping my cheek. His thumb smears my tears with his blood.
“Serafina….” His voice is raw, fragile, and it terrifies me. His lips twitch into the faintest smile. “I love you.”
My sobs tear out of me, violent, unstoppable. I shake my head, pressing my forehead to his, rocking him as if I can will him back into strength. “No, Cristofano. You don’t get to say that like it’s the end. I love you too, do you hear me? I love you too! Please—stay with me!”
His breath rattles. His body grows heavier in my arms.
And when his eyes flutter closed, I scream—a sound ripped from my very soul, a sound that has no end.
I don’t let go. My arms are locked around Cristofano’s body, my cheek pressed to his blood-slick chest. His heartbeat is faint—too faint—but I cling to it as though sheer will can drag him back.
“Please, please, wake up,” I sob into his skin, my tears staining what blood hasn’t already soaked through. My hands shake as I press down on his wound, begging the bleeding to stop, begging him to breathe stronger. “Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. Not now.”
Somewhere close, Bianca is crying—a high, broken wail that pierces through me—but my body refuses to release him. Her tiny voice calls, “Mama! Mama!” but I can only rock Cristofano against me, whispering his name like a prayer.
Then Matteo is there, crashing to his knees beside us. His face is gray with dust and blood, his eyes wild as they take in Cristofano’s limp body. He presses two fingers to his throat, his jaw locking hard, then looks at me. For a moment, I see raw fear crack his mask.
“Hold on,” he mutters—maybe to me, maybe to himself. He pulls out his radio, barking orders, his voice cracking with urgency.
I can hear boots pounding, men shouting. A flood of medics rushes in, their kits slamming open against the floor. One of them grips my shoulder. “Signora, you have to let us take him—”
“No!” I scream, clutching Cristofano tighter, as though they’ll take him from me forever.
“Serafina,” Matteo says sharply, his voice breaking, “let them. Please.”
My arms loosen, trembling, and the medics pull him from me, their gloved hands working fast—compressions, bandages, shouting codes I don’t understand. My body rocks empty without his weight.
Someone touches me again, but this time it’s Bianca. I look down to see her pressed against my chest, her little arms locking tight around my neck. I scoop her up and hold her so fiercely she squeaks. I can feel her heartbeat hammering against mine, her tears soaking into my collar. “It’s okay, baby. Mama’s here. Mama’s got you,” I whisper, though my voice shakes so badly I hardly recognize it.
Behind us, Isla is lifted onto a stretcher. I can’t let myself think about what she’s endured—I just cling to Bianca, her small body my only anchor.
Matteo’s voice cuts through, rough and low. “Move! Get them out of here—now!”
He’s barking orders, herding us toward the ambulance. But I see it—the way his throat works as he swallows, the way hiseyes glisten though he forces them to stay sharp. He’s holding back tears, for Cristofano, for all of us.
The doors slam behind us, metal rattling as the ambulance jolts forward. Bianca buries her face into my chest, clutching my dress. My arms cradle her like she’s the only thing left holding me together.
And as the siren wails, drowning everything else out, I can only rock her and whisper the same words again and again, my voice cracking with every syllable:
“Please don’t die, Cristofano. Please…don’t die.”
Chapter 33 – Serafina
Bianca’s small body is warm against me, her breath soft and steady where her cheek rests against my chest. She’s finally asleep—spent from fear, from tears, from everything—and I rock her absently, though my arms feel made of stone.
The waiting room hums with fluorescent light and the muffled shuffle of nurses beyond closed doors. Matteo paces like a caged animal, his boots heavy against the sterile tiles. His shirt is still damp with Cristofano’s blood. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, his voice low but sharp.
“They caught him,” he says. “Tony Belluci. My men found him trying to slip through the back alley. He’s in our custody now.”
I blink slowly, numb. The name cuts, but there’s no room left for shock. My fingers curl tighter around Bianca’s tiny shoulder. I manage a nod. Nothing more.
Matteo drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Listen,” he says, gentler, “I can take you and Bianca to a hotel nearby. Somewhere safe. You don’t have to sit here—”
The doors swing open. The doctor steps in, his white coat stained at the sleeves, his expression heavy. Time seems to stall.
He clears his throat. “The woman you brought in…” His eyes flicker with practiced sorrow. “…she didn’t make it. But her child survived. A girl.”
