Page 110 of Blood Debt
Matteo slams the door, climbs into the front, and yells for the convoy to move. Engines roar to life, the Bellarosa fleet spilling out into the night like shadows on the hunt.
Inside the car, Alessandra’s perfume chokes the air. My heart pounds with only one thought, one vow.
Serafina. Bianca. Hold on. I’m coming.
***
Matteo grips Alessandra’s arm tight, dragging her forward like a prisoner, her wrist bent at an angle that keeps her quiet even as she winces. I walk beside them, every step heavy, rage simmering just beneath the surface.
Outside, my men fan out, their presence a wall of muscle and guns. I know each of them is watching, waiting for the signal, but inside these walls it’s just me, Matteo, Alessandra…and him.
Marcello Vitale sits in the center of the room as if he owns the world, legs crossed, gloves pristine, golden hair gleaming under the low chandelier. A smile curls on his lips the moment his pale, serpent eyes find mine.
“Cristofano,” he says, smooth as poison, spreading his arms like a host welcoming a guest. “I’ve missed you.”
My jaw locks so hard I feel my teeth ache. “Where are they?” My voice is flat, edged with steel. “My wife. My child.”
Marcello doesn’t answer with words at first. Instead, he lifts his gloved hands and claps slowly, mockingly. The sound echoes through the hall.
Behind him, a massive screen flickers to life.
And there they are.
Serafina—pale, trembling, clutching Bianca so tightly it looks like she’ll fuse their bodies together. Bianca’s small face streaked with tears, pressing into her mother’s chest. And beside them…another woman. Bound, swollen with pregnancy, her body battered but her eyes defiant even in their ruin.
My throat tightens, a roar pressing against my chest, but I force myself still. Any wrong move, and that screen becomes their execution.
“Dismiss your men,” Marcello drawls, leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossing over his knee. “If you want to see your little whore and your child alive, dismiss them. Now.”
I glance at Matteo. His hand twitches toward his weapon, the old soldier in him ready to fight. But then he touches the comm in his ear, his voice clipped. “Disperse.”
There’s a beat of silence, then the soft shuffle of boots outside as my men pull back.
Marcello tilts his head, and one of his guards whispers in his ear. He smiles wider. “Good. They’ve gone. Just you and me now.”
I step forward, every muscle coiled, my hands flexing at my sides. “You have the Black Book. Let them go.”
Marcello throws back his head and laughs. A sharp, grating sound that echoes in the hollow room. When his paleeyes snap back to me, they glitter with mockery. “Do you truly take me for a fool? You think I don’t know what you gave me is fake?” He leans forward, his smile stretching thin, predatory. “No, Cristofano. The Black Book was never my prize. You were.”
The words land heavily, like chains wrapping around my chest. My heart beats harder, faster, but my face stays carved from stone. Inside, though, fire licks up my veins. He thinks he has me.
Marcello’s pale eyes glitter as he rises, the smirk on his lips like venom given form. Slowly, deliberately, he draws a sleek black pistol from beneath his tailored jacket. The barrel gleams in the dim light as he levels it at me.
“I’m going to kill you,” he says almost casually, his voice cold silk. His gaze flicks toward the screen still showing Serafina and Bianca. “And then your little wife and child. Nothing left. Nothing.”
A flash of panic claws through my chest, but I shove it down, locking my body into steel. “You won’t touch them,” I growl, my finger twitching near my holster.
Before I can move, Alessandra’s voice slices the tension. “Don’t you dare!” she screams, lunging forward despite Matteo’s grip on her arm. Her eyes burn with desperation, sapphire shards of madness. “He belongs to me!”
Marcello chuckles, and, without hesitation, he swivels the pistol and fires.
The crack shatters the room. Alessandra crumples to the floor, clutching her thigh as blood seeps through her silk dress. She groans, spitting out a curse, “Son of a bitch!” Her voice is ragged with pain.
My gun is out in a heartbeat, Matteo’s too. Both barrels trained on Marcello. My chest heaves, fury threatening to split me apart.
“Let’s not get hasty,” Marcello says, almost amused, lifting one gloved hand. “Breathe in, Cristofano.”
The words puzzle me for a split second—then he lowers the gun and covers his own nose with that same gloved hand. My gut twists.
