Page 63 of Blood Debt
He doesn’t follow. Just walks away.
I face the door.
Hand trembling slightly, I knock once. Then open it.
Cristofano is sitting in an armchair by the fireplace.
He looks up, but doesn’t speak.
A cigarette burns between his fingers.
“Come,” he says.
My feet carry me forward even as my gut twists.
I walk slowly, each step controlled.
The tip of my finger hovers just above the SOS button inside my skirt.
If he turns around and accuses me, if he shows me proof—video, a trace, anything—I’ll press it.
But he doesn’t. He stands.
Walks to the far end of the room.
Then stops in front of a door I hadn’t noticed before.
Without looking back, he says, “Go inside.”
His voice is cool. My throat tightens.
I take one step.
Two.
The door creaks open.
I step inside.
He follows.
The room smells like antiseptic and old leather.
The lighting is low. One wall is lined with shelves of thick books. In the center of the room, beneath a low chandelier, is a wide hospital bed—no, not a bed. A reclining medical chair.
And seated in it, upright and alert, is an older man with graying hair, sharp features, and eyes that gleam with suspicion.
He turns his head as we enter, his voice cutting immediately through the air.
“You rascal,” he snaps at Cristofano. “What is this?”
Cristofano exhales smoke.
“She’s the woman I want to marry.”
The words land like a slap. I stop breathing.
My jaw parts slowly—silent.
