Page 124 of Blood Debt
The guards rush in instantly. They seize her arms, wrenching her upright as she thrashes, cursing, her voice breaking with fury.
“You think you’ve won, Serafina!” she screams as they drag her toward the door. “You’ll never keep him! Cristofano will be mine, do you hear me? Mine!”
Her curses echo long after the door slams shut, the chains rattling like a dirge in the silence that follows.
I sit back slowly, my pulse thundering, my hands shaking in my lap. For the first time in a long time, I feel no guilt in the sob building in my chest—only cold resolve.
****
I smooth down my blouse with trembling hands before slipping into the driver’s seat. The leather feels too cold, too stiff beneath me, but I grip the wheel and start the engine anyway. The road blurs past in streaks of gray and green, my heart tightening with every mile.
When I finally pull up to the cemetery, dawn light spills over the rows of stones, soft and unforgiving. I step out of the car, clutching the bouquet of lilies in one hand and a brown bottle of beer in the other. My heels crunch against gravel as I make my way to her grave.
ISLA CONTI.
I kneel slowly, placing the flowers down, adjusting them until they sit just right. My hands linger, brushing dirt and old petals away, as though clearing the stone might somehow make up for everything I failed to do. My throat burns.
I sit back against the headstone, pressing my spine into the cold marble until I feel it through my bones. I tip my head back and close my eyes, just breathing for a long moment before whispering, “Isla.” Her name tastes bitter in my mouth. “I brought you flowers. And…” I raise the beer bottle, fumbling with the cap until it hisses open, “…this. You always said we’d drink cheap beer when we finally made it. So”—my voice cracks, and I swallow hard, forcing the words out—“here’s to you.”
The tears come before I can stop them. Carving paths down my cheeks. I swipe at them, angry, but more come, and I give up.
“I need you to forgive me,” I whisper, the words breaking apart. “For holding on to her. For not letting her go to her father.” My chest shakes with sobs. “She’s so beautiful, Isla. So chubby, so alive. Her little fists curl just like yours did when you were angry. She’s everything you deserved to see. And I kept her.”
I bow my head, my hand gripping the bottle so hard it hurts.
“I promise I’ll tell Luca about her, one day. When she’s older. When I know she’s safe. But not now. Rome isn’t safe. No place feels safe.” My shoulders shake as I squeeze my eyes shut. “Forgive me for keeping her close, Isla. Forgive me for not letting go.”
A weak laugh slips through, broken by sobs. “She looks like you. So much it hurts to breathe when I hold her. Every time she cries, I think of you laughing. Loud and wild. And every time I see her smile, I see the friend I lost twice.”
My chest collapses, and I fold forward, pressing my forehead against the cold stone. My tears soak into it, leaving trails. “I miss you,” I choke out. “I miss you every day. I couldn’t save you. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
The silence presses in on me, heavy, suffocating. I take a long swig of the beer, the bitterness stinging my throat. I gasp for air and clutch the bottle to my chest, as if it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
I sit there for a long time, whispering to her, telling her about her baby, about Bianca, about Cristofano. About love, about loss. Talking as if she can hear me. Talking because if I stop, I’ll drown in the silence.
****
The drive back from the cemetery is harrowing, the hum of the road barely cutting through the heavy ache still in my chest. By the time I reach the villa, the sun is high, spilling gold through the tall windows. I push the door open—and freeze.
A shrill beeping cuts through the air. The smoke alarm.
My heart lurches, and I drop my bag by the door, running toward the kitchen. The smell hits me first—burnt sugar, charred flour, the unmistakable sting of smoke.
When I burst through the doorway, the scene makes me stop dead.
Matteo is crouched at the oven, wrestling with a blackened tray like it’s a live bomb. His face is red from the heat, sweat dripping down his temples. Cristofano stands a few steps away, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel over one shoulder. Strapped against his broad chest is a tiny bundle—Isla’s baby girl—snoozing peacefully, utterly oblivious to the chaos.
And right in the middle, Bianca, standing on a stool with chocolate smeared across her chin, spots me first. Her eyes light up.
“Mama!” she squeals, leaping down and running straight into my arms.
I scoop her up, clutching her tight, my heart softening even as the smoke alarm continues its shrill protest.
Behind us, Matteo curses under his breath as he sets the tray down with a thud. Cristofano shifts, shielding the baby’s head with one hand as if smoke could dare touch her. His gaze meets mine, sheepish, and he clears his throat.
“Baby…you’re back,” he says, his deep voice low, almost guilty.
I raise a brow, holding Bianca on my hip as I take in the scene—burnt cake, flour on the counter, two grown men caught red-handed. “What,” I ask slowly, “exactly is this?”
