Page 10 of Blood Debt
I sigh. “Apparently...I don’t have a choice.”
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Carlton Wine Room, Melbourne, Australia
The restaurant is dimly lit—warm wood, aged brick, candlelight softening the edges of what would otherwise feel like a high-end interrogation room. Couples murmur over pinot noir and cured duck. A live pianist plays something smooth and forgettable in the background.
Across from me, she talks. And talks.
I’ve lost track of what about.
Something to do with her brother’s dog and a fashion internship in Milan that she turned down because “mafia girls shouldn’t work.” Her words trail ribbons of perfume into the air—something floral and sharp, clinging to the edge of citrus.
She’s beautiful, undeniably.
Wide eyes, unnaturally bright, framed with lashes too perfect to be real. Her lips are full, glossy, and moving with practiced rhythm. Her dress is cut to reveal just enough to imply access, but not intention. Her hair is pinned in a vintage twist, copper-gold in the low light. A calculated elegance.
She’s the kind of woman who’s been taught since birth how to hold a man’s attention.
And yet—my mind drifts.
My glass is full. I haven’t taken a sip.
“…Cristofano,” she says suddenly, tilting her head, smile curling. “Are you always this…present on dates?”
I blink. “Apologies.”
She laughs—lilting, musical, and too polished. “It’s fine. Really. But it makes me wonder.”
She leans in across the table, elbow grazing the linen, voice dropping just enough to feign intimacy.
“You know…rumor has it, you're gay.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And if I were?”
Her smile falters, just for a fraction. She recovers quickly, brushing her finger along the stem of her wine glass. “Well, then I could stop wasting my time.”
I turn slightly toward Matteo, who sits just behind us at the next table, nursing a whiskey and keeping a watchful eye on the room.
“Matteo,” I say, deadpan. “Would you be interested in being my lover?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “You’re not quite my type, Don.”
I smirk. “Ouch.”
The woman doesn’t laugh.
She crosses her legs slowly, her foot brushing mine beneath the table.
“I looked into you, you know. You don’t have any girlfriends. No lovers. Not even the usual arrangement girls. Are you…?”
She lets her gaze drop—slow and deliberate—then back up again with a spark of provocation.
“Does it even work?”
I tilt my head, lips curling slightly.
“Oh, it works,” I say, my voice low. “A bit too well.”
