Page 122 of Blood Debt
He looks at me, his expression soft, unbearably soft. His lips part, and his voice is hoarse, rough like gravel.
"It's all my fault. I’m sorry!” I sob
“No more apologies." His thumb brushes weakly across my cheek, wiping a tear I can’t stop. “No more tears.”
I nod furiously, my face wet, my throat raw. “Okay,” I choke out. “I’ll try. I swear I’ll try.”
The words I’ve carried like a stone finally break loose. “I love you.”
He studies me, eyes glistening, and then he leans forward. His lips press against the bridge of my nose, tender, deliberate, anchoring me. When he pulls back, his breath is shaky, but his words are steady.
“I love you too.”
My whole body folds forward, collapsing against his chest, my tears soaking his gown all over again. But this time, the sobs are different. Not hollow. Not hopeless. They’re alive.
Cristofano’s hand is still cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears that won’t stop. His words echo—I love you too.
Behind us, I hear a stir. Bianca shifts on the couch, small and restless, her lashes fluttering as she wakes. She sits up, rubbing her eyes with little fists, her blanket sliding into her lap. When her gaze finds me bent close to Cristofano, she blinks—confused, hesitant.
“Mama?” she whispers.
I turn to her, my heart breaking and swelling all at once. “Come here, tesoro.” My voice is soft, coaxing, fragile like glass.
She slides off the couch, bare feet padding against the tile, but she stops halfway, uncertain. Her big hazel-green eyes flick to Cristofano, wary and curious. I nod gently, urging her forward. “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.”
Cristofano, weak though he is, shifts upright, gritting through the discomfort. He stretches out a trembling hand toward her. “Come,” he says, his voice rough but steady, “I won’t hurt you.”
Something flickers in her eyes—trust, fragile but alive. She shuffles closer until she’s by my side. I press a kiss to her temple. “This is your papa,” I whisper, the words tasting surreal, heavy with everything we lost and everything we’ve found again.
She stiffens, then looks up at him, searching his face. “Papa?” she repeats, uncertain, as if trying the word for the first time.
Cristofano nods. With effort, he gathers her into his arms. His strength is nowhere near what it used to be, but he holds her as if she’s the most precious thing in the world—and she is. His arms tremble under her slight weight, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls her onto his lap and draws her close to his chest.
“I’m your father,” he tells her softly, his steel-gray eyes brimming. “And I should have been here for you all along. From today, I promise, I will be.”
Bianca looks up at me, her little brow furrowed. I nod, my tears spilling freely now. “It’s true, baby. He’s your papa.”
Her lips curve slowly into a shy smile. She studies his face, tilts her head, and then blurts in her innocent, unfiltered way: “You’re handsome.”
For the first time since he opened his eyes, Cristofano is visibly thrown off balance. His mouth parts, a flush creeps across his olive skin, and he actually stammers. “I—uh….”
I can’t help it. A laugh breaks through my tears, shaky but real. “Well,” I tease gently, brushing Bianca’s hair back, “it seems she takes after her mama with her blunt honesty.”
Cristofano narrows his eyes at me, mock offense barely hiding the warmth behind it. Bianca giggles—a soft, tinkling sound I haven’t heard in what feels like forever—and buries her face into his chest, safe in her father’s arms at last.
For the first time in years, we’re not three broken pieces scattered across the world. We’re here. Together.
Bianca is still curled against Cristofano’s chest, her little fingers tracing the buttons on his hospital gown, when I find my voice again. My throat is raw from crying, but I know I can’t keep this in.
“There’s something else,” I whisper, my gaze dropping to the floor.
Cristofano looks at me, his steel-gray eyes soft but searching. “What is it, amore?”
I swallow hard. My arms tighten around Bianca as if the strength will come from her warmth. “Isla…she had a baby. A little girl.” My voice cracks. “The doctors said she’s healthy. But….” I stop, fighting back the sting in my chest. “I don’t want to return her to Isla’s fiancé. Not yet. Rome isn’t safe. And after everything—after Tony, after Marcello—I don’t trust anyone.”
My fingers tremble as I brush Bianca’s hair behind her ear. “I want to raise her, Cristofano. As mine. As my own.”
For a moment, the room is silent but for the beeping of the monitor and the shallow sound of Bianca’s breathing. Then Cristofano reaches for my hand, his grip weak but steady, and tilts my chin up to meet his gaze.
