Page 13 of Blood Debt
I whip toward him. “You told me we would follow it to the end.”
He shakes his head once, slowly. “We won’t.”
I shake him off and follow him into his office.
The blinds are half-drawn, light cutting uneven lines across the dark desk. A stack of unsigned requisitions restsbeside his old mug, the coffee inside cold and abandoned. He doesn’t sit.
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the top drawer and lights one with hands that shake slightly.
The flare of the match glows against the tight lines at his brow.
“Does this mean Isla gets no justice?” I ask, voice tighter than it should be.
He takes a long drag before answering. “It means the case is above us now.”
I wait.
He exhales slowly, eyes closing.
Then he reaches into the drawer again and holds out a cigarette to me.
I stare at it. “You know I quit,” I murmur. “For Bianca.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then don’t light it.”
He leaves it between us.
I don’t take it.
Instead, I press both palms to the edge of the desk and breathe hard through my nose. “She died for this.”
Tony says nothing.
“She died,” I repeat, my voice trembling now, “and we get pushed out like this was a clerical error. That’s it? Just step aside and rest?”
He finally speaks, quiet but firm. “Yes.”
His eyes meet mine. The decision is already made in his face. It’s in the slump of his shoulders, the tired set of his mouth.
“Take care of your daughter, Serafina. Rest. You’ve earned it.”
The finality in his voice slams through me like a door locking shut.
I stand for a moment, then walk out without another word.
****
The house is too quiet.
For the first time in months, I’m home before sundown. The light filters through the sheer kitchen curtains in thick, golden waves, dust drifting lazily in the warmth. Bianca’s drawings are still taped to the fridge—dragons and princesses and one lopsided sketch of me that says Super Mama.
She’s still at school. It’s early. I should be grateful for the quiet.
Instead, I feel hollow.
I open the fridge, grab eggs and milk, and then take vanilla from the cabinet. Bianca’s favorite dessert—budino al cioccolato. I arrange the ingredients on the counter and move with a steady rhythm. Whisking. Heating. Pouring into the ramekins like muscle memory.
The chocolate aroma fills the room. It smells like weekends. Like tiny spoons and giggles and chocolate-stained cheeks.
