Page 117 of Blood Debt
Alessandra lets out a sharp, broken laugh, which turns into a ragged cough. “You’ll see, Cristofano. You’ll see you should’ve chosen me.”
I don’t waste another glance on her. Matteo shoves her back against the wall, disgust in his eyes, and we press forward.
We walk. Each step feels heavier, the air denser, charged with the scent of iron and dread. Bianca suddenly stiffens in my arms, her breath hitching.
Then her scream shatters the silence.
My gaze jerks up—and my blood runs ice.
The space opens into a wide chamber lit by harsh overhead bulbs. In the center, Serafina kneels, a heavy metal chain coiled around her neck and bolted into the floor. Her hair is a disheveled halo, her pale skin smudged with dirt, her green eyes burning with defiance even through exhaustion.Beside her, sprawled against the cold concrete, lies a heavily pregnant woman—her friend, Isla, if Bianca’s words ring true—tears streaking down her bruised face.
And towering over them, his smile venom-slick, stands Marcello Vitale. His men flank him like wolves, rifles gleaming in the artificial light.
“Well,” Marcello drawls, his pale eyes locking on me with a predator’s delight. “You finally showed up.”
The chain at Serafina’s throat glints as she shifts slightly, and though her body trembles, her gaze finds mine. For a single breath, the world shrinks to just her—her silent plea, her unbroken spirit—and rage coils hot and merciless in my veins.
I adjust Bianca higher against me, shielding her face from the sight, and my free hand tightens around the grip of my gun.
This ends tonight.
Chapter 32 – Serafina
Marcello’s Stronghold
My heart plummets the moment I see him. Cristofano standing just beyond the circle of Marcello’s men. The sight of him slices me open. I can hear Bianca screaming for me, her little voice shrill with terror, and my chest cracks apart.
This is all my fault.
I failed Bianca. I failed Isla. I failed Cristofano.
Tears blur my vision as I watch him hold Bianca close, whispering something low against her hair. Then, gently but firmly, he passes her into Matteo’s waiting arms. Matteo nods grimly, cradling my daughter against his chest as though she were his own blood.
Only then does Cristofano straighten, his focus shifting entirely to Marcello. His steel-gray eyes are knives when he demands, “What do you want?”
Marcello reclines, pale eyes glittering with satisfaction as he taps the barrel of his pistol against his leg. A showman in his theatre of cruelty.
“What I want is simple,” he says, voice rich with mockery. “I want you dead, Cristofano.”
My breath stutters.
Marcello spreads his arms as if granting mercy. “But I am a man of choices. You can walk away tonight—without your wife, without your child. Live to fight another day.” His grin sharpens as he gestures toward me, chained to the floor, then to Isla sobbing beside me. “Or…you can undo her chain. Replaceher with yourself. Bind Il Giudice like a dog. And then your wife, your child, and her pitiful friend…walk free.”
His laughter echoes against the stone walls, cruel and gloating.
The chain around my neck bites into my skin as I sob harder. Isla moans, her arms cradling her swollen belly, and Bianca cries for me in Matteo’s arms. And all I can think is how I broke us all.
Then Cristofano looks at me. The monster, the man, the father—his gaze strips bare everything I’ve feared. And in those eyes, I see not judgment, but something impossibly tender.
And he moves.
Step by step, ignoring the guns leveled at him, ignoring Marcello’s smirk, he walks toward me. When he kneels, the rattling of my chain is the only sound between us—until his arms close around me.
I collapse against him, breaking apart in sobs, my words spilling hot and useless against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m so sorry, Cristofano. I’m sorry.”
His arms tighten around me, his body shielding mine, as if he can hold back the world.
