Page 44 of Blood Debt
Serafina.
A silver tray balanced in her trembling hands. A white linen napkin is folded beneath a covered plate. Her shoulders are stiff, her spine visibly straightened with effort.
Her eyes widen when she sees us.
She lowers her gaze at once.
“ I-I-I’m sorry, Signore—I should have knocked. I didn’t know—”
Her voice breaks. Her fingers twitch. The tray shakes slightly.
I say nothing.
Serafina steps forward, gaze still on the floor, and crosses the room with careful, measured steps. She places the tray on the side table beside the bed, fingers lingering a second too long on the edge.
“I’ll—I’ll go now,” she whispers, bowing again.
She turns and walks out fast, head down.
The door clicks softly behind her. I’m still staring.
Alessandra scoffs beside me.
I look down.
Below the thin cotton of my boxers, my body’s betrayed me. I have an erection just from seeing her.
She laughs once, flat. “Really?” She gestures to the door. “That’s the one?”
I don’t answer.
Because the answer’s already there—my dick, pressing against the fabric with zero shame.
And God help me…I don’t even feel sorry.
****
My office is quiet except for the low tick of the antique wall clock and the occasional rustle of paper when I shift the file open on my desk. My jacket hangs on the back of my chair. My sleeves are rolled to the elbows. A glass of watered-down bourbon sits half-drunk near my hand.
The door clicks softly.
Matteo steps in, crisp in a black button-down, sleeves ironed to perfection. He closes the door behind him and lingers just inside the room, one hand at his side, the other holding a slim tablet.
“She left,” he says simply.
I glance up. “Alessandra?”
He nods. “An hour ago. Said she’d be back after the weekend.”
I snort under my breath and sit back in my chair. “And let me guess—my father suggested she spend the weekend here.”
Matteo’s mouth twitches. “He insisted on it.”
I scrub a hand down my face and exhale. “Schedule a work trip or something. Make up a reason I have to be in Hobart. Tomorrow.”
Matteo shifts, but he doesn’t leave.
I arch an eyebrow.
