Page 80 of Blood Debt
At the station, I melt into the crowd, my bag slung over one shoulder, coat still buttoned to my neck. I can feel him behind me even here, keeping distance but always in sight. I pass under the arched steel beams and the echo of train announcements fills the air, the metallic tang of rails and coffee mingling in the drafty hall.
I head toward the central concourse, step into a cluster of travelers, and let the press of bodies hide me. My hands work quickly—coat off, stuffed into my bag. My braid comes loose with a tug; I shake my hair free, let it curtain my face. Wide-brimmed hat, tinted glasses. The woman who walked out of Bellarosa Estate this morning no longer exists.
When the crowd thins, I veer away from the boarding platforms toward the main exit, slipping out into the sunlight. Another taxi idles at the curb.
I open the door. “Flinders Lane, The Lantern Room café,” I tell the driver.
He grins at me in the mirror. “Coming right up.”
As the cab pulls away, I turn in my seat and look back through the rear window. The man in the mask is there on the pavement, scanning the dispersing crowd with a sharp, frustrated pivot of his head.
I smile faintly to myself and face forward. For now, I’m the one who’s vanished.
The city hums past in a blur of streetlights and glass storefronts. I sink into the cracked leather seat, keeping my gaze fixed on the rearview mirror. The man in the mask is gone. For now.
My fingers find the in-ear comm tucked behind my hair. A soft click, then Tony’s voice filters in, rough and steady.
“You in one piece?”
“Yes,” I murmur, low enough the driver won’t catch it. “On my way to the contact.”
“Good. My guys are still sorting through the files you pulled from Cristofano Bellarosa’s system. I’m positive we can crack his trafficking network with what you’ve given me.”
I stare out the window at passing tramlines, my jaw tight. “That’s not enough, Tony. I want his head. He killed Isla. He threatened Bianca.”
There’s a beat of static before he answers.
“The man you’re meeting…he’s cunning. But he hates Bellarosa—feeds us intel on him whenever it suits him. We’ve never been able to pin him, but this guy…he might help us get close.”
“I’ll make sure he goes down hard,” I promise, the words tasting like iron.
The driver pulls into a narrow lane, its cobblestones slick from an earlier rain. Both sides are flanked by shuttered cafés and graffiti-tagged brick.
The cabbie leans on the wheel, giving me a sidelong look. “Careful, miss. Place like this? You could get rolled.”
Before I can answer, he’s pocketed the fare and sped off, taillights vanishing around the corner.
The lane is quiet. My breath fogs in the cool air as I scan the shadows.
A cough breaks the silence behind me.
I turn.
He’s leaning casually against a doorway—tall, maybe six-one, with a slender but coiled frame under a navy suit. Blond hair combed neatly back, pale blue eyes that don’t blink enough. Gloves. Always gloves. His smile is thin, as if amusement costs him effort.
“I hear you want to take down Cristofano Bellarosa,” he says, voice smooth and unhurried. “I want to take him down, too.”
He extends a gloved hand.
I glance at it, my heartbeat steady by force of will. Slowly, I take it.
This has to be done, I tell myself.
For Isla, Bianca.
Chapter 18 - Serafina
Melbourne
