Page 105 of Blood Debt
Matteo curses under his breath. “This was planned. He knew.” He turns to me, eyes wide with realization. “Cristofano, he knew about her before she even came.”
I drag deeply on the cigarette, the burn grounding me. Inside, my rage feels bottomless, coiled like a storm. If she believes her friend's death was mine…then this bastard painted me a monster long before I touched her.
Matteo’s hand flicks sharply. “Take them out. Both.”
The guards behind us move in, dragging the kneeling traitors by their arms. Their screams echo against the concreteas they’re hauled away, cut short as the heavy steel door slams shut.
Matteo wipes his hand on a cloth, eyes narrowing. “We’ll call our man in the Italian police. If Cristofano’s been pulling strings, we need to know.”
I nod once. He dials, pressing the phone to his ear. Silence stretches. His frown deepens.
“Nothing,” he mutters. “Not even a ring.”
A prickle of unease crawls down my spine. “Try again.”
He does. Again. Still nothing.
Slowly, Matteo lowers the phone. His eyes meet mine, hard and dark.
I turn to Matteo, my voice low but sharp. “Contact our allies in Italy; they are to watch my daughter. If Marcello’s plan runs this deep, then he’s not above touching a little girl.”
Matteo studies me for a moment, searching my face. His jaw ticks before he nods once. “Consider it done.”
“Put the mansion on red alert. Marcello is going to realize soon enough that what he has is a fake. And when he does, he’ll thrash like a serpent, looking for a way to sink his teeth in.”
Matteo doesn’t flinch, but his eyes narrow with something between concern and resignation. “And Serafina?” he presses. “You’re not afraid he’ll hurt her?”
A muscle jumps in my jaw. For a long moment, I stare past him at the wall, at the faint patterns in the wallpaper that I’ve memorized over decades. Then I shake my head once. “No. She’s the only leverage Marcello has against me. He won’t jeopardize that.”
The words taste like iron in my mouth, half-truth, half-prayer.
Matteo nods slowly. He doesn’t argue this time, though I can feel the weight of the thoughts he leaves unspoken. He steps back, turns, and leaves the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Alone, I move to my drawer. The metal handle is cool under my palm. I slide it open, my eyes catching on the pistol inside. I lift it out, feel its weight, the promise of it. My thumb rests on the safety, and for a heartbeat, I picture Serafina—her green eyes, her trembling lips when she whispered Let’s get married soon.
Chapter 28 – Serafina
Marcello’s Estate
Marcello’s men lead me through the grand corridor, their heavy boots echoing off polished marble. I keep my chin lifted, my bun pulled tight at the nape of my neck, my black jumpsuit clinging like armor. The double doors open with a creak, and there he is. Marcello Vitale, lounging in a leather chair like a serpent coiled at ease, pale eyes glinting under the low chandelier. His gloves gleam as he steeples his fingers, and that smile—the one that slithers across his face like it knows too much—makes my stomach twist.
I don’t wait for pleasantries. I yank the black box from under my arm and throw it onto the table in front of him. The sound of it hitting wood cracks through the room.
“There,” I bite out, my voice sharper than I feel inside. “I’ve done it. Just like you wanted.”
My chest heaves, my heart betraying me, because behind my words I still see Cristofano’s eyes—icy, bewildered—as he fired at Matteo instead of me. Why? Why spare me? That look in his gaze clings to me like a shadow I can’t shake. I slam the thought away before it breaks me.
Marcello doesn’t speak right away. He leans forward, pale eyes drinking in the black box like it’s a relic, like it belongs only to him. His breath hitches, reverent, and then he reclines back into his chair with a satisfied sigh.
“Finally,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “The heart of the Bellarosas, in my hands.”
“Keep your bargain,” I snap, forcing steel into my voice. “Now.”
He smirks, taps his gloved fingers against the box, and then claps. The sound echoes like a drumbeat of dread.
The door opens.
And Alessandra Morelli steps in, sharp bob gleaming under the light, sapphire eyes glittering with venomous triumph. But it isn’t her that makes the air leave my lungs.
