Page 126 of Blood Debt
And somehow, impossibly, he fought back against death itself.
In two months, the bedridden patriarch was walking. In three, he was jogging in the gardens, cane abandoned. Now, he moves with the strength of a man twenty years younger, holding Bianca in his arms like she’s his second chance at life.
Cristofano and Matteo still handle the darker syndicate affairs—most of it under the cover of night. But by day, the estate is quieter, almost normal. Vittorio sits with Bianca on the terrace, teaching her Sicilian words, spoiling her with sweets, listening to her laughter like it’s medicine. And she—my daughter, our daughter—adores him back with the same fierce devotion.
Don Vittorio walks toward me, still holding Bianca in his arms, and I rise instinctively. For a moment, I brace myself for his old severity, but instead, he pulls me into his embrace. His arms are firm, almost shockingly strong, and I find myself melting against the man who had once terrified me. He presses a kiss to the baby strapped to Cristofano’s chest—a gesture so gentle it tugs tears to my eyes. In that moment, I know he has accepted her fully—Isla’s child, now our child. His grandchild.
Then, with a spark of mischief in his storm-gray eyes, he turns to Cristofano and Matteo. Without a word, he raps both of them across the back of their heads with surprising speed.
Cristofano groans dramatically, rubbing the spot. “Papà…” he mutters, his pride wounded more than his skull. I laugh softly, leaning in to kiss his chin in consolation, and he grins at me, boyish despite the scar and steel in his gaze.
Matteo, however, rolls his eyes skyward. “Always the scapegoat,” he mutters, just in time for Bianca to twist in her grandfather’s arms, lean over, and plant an exaggerated kiss on Matteo’s stubbled chin. He freezes, startled, then cracks into a grin that transforms his face.
“Traitor,” Cristofano grumbles, but even his jealousy can’t hide the amusement tugging at his lips.
Don Vittorio clears his throat, regaining his regal composure. “I’m staying for dinner,” he announces, his tone brooking no argument. He claps his hands, and the heavy doors open again. His men file in, carrying boxes wrapped in silk ribbons, setting them down with reverence.
“For my granddaughter,” he says, nodding to Bianca. “And for the little one,” his gaze softens at the baby. “And for you, mia cara,” he adds, looking straight at me.
Matteo and Cristofano exchange a glance and immediately ask in unison, “And us?”
The old man turns his glare on them, sharp as ever, and they both snap their mouths shut. One look is enough. With surprising synchronicity, they scurry off muttering about needing to fetch water, and I stifle my laugh behind my hand.
I stay where I am, watching the scene unfold—the man I love speaking quietly with Matteo, his arms careful around the sleeping baby; my daughter squealing with delight as she opens gift after gift, her grandfather’s laughter booming as though he never knew illness.
Then Vittorio lifts his eyes and signals me forward with a small flick of his hand. For once, there’s no menace in the gesture, only warmth. My throat tightens as I rise, smoothing my clothes, and walk toward them—toward family.
****
The house feels unnaturally quiet that night. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock in the hall and the distant hum of the city beyond the estate walls fill the silence. I linger by the nursery door, adjusting the blanket over Isla’s baby, watching her chest rise and fall with the steady rhythm of dreams. For a moment, peace feels possible.
When I step into the corridor, the soft glow of the wall sconces throws long shadows across the polished floors. And there—halfway down the hall—stands Cristofano. He’s just pulled Bianca’s door shut after tucking her in, his hand still resting on the brass knob. His frame fills the space, broad and unmoving, but there’s something unguarded in the way his shoulders slump.
He turns when he hears me. For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. Then I go to him, the distance between us collapsing until I’m in his arms. His warmth seeps into me, his hand pressing firmly against my back as though anchoring me here, now. I bury my face against his chest, breathing him in—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the steady drum of his heart.
“Where did you go today?” His voice is low, edged with a sharpness he’s trying to control.
I lean back, searching his eyes. Steel-gray, as unreadable as ever, but the flicker of tension is there. I rest my palm against his chest. “I went to see Alessandra.”
His jaw hardens instantly, his gaze turning into that icy mask the world fears. But before he can speak, I squeeze his shirt lightly. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “It’s over.”
The silence stretches. Then, slowly, his expression shifts. The mask cracks, and he exhales. “I trust you,” he says. Simple words, but they hit me like a blow to the chest. My throat tightens.
And then—almost unexpectedly—his gaze softens further, shadows giving way to something vulnerable. “If your mother approves of us….” His voice dips, hesitant, a rare uncertainty. “…let’s get married again. For real this time.”
My breath catches. He, the man who commands armies, looks at me with something almost shy in his eyes. I smile through the tears brimming hotly. “Are you nervous about my mother?”
He nods. Almost boyish.
A laugh bursts out of me, shaky but genuine. “You’ve faced men with knives and guns, and you’re afraid of a Sicilian mother?”
His mouth curves, reluctant, the closest thing to a laugh rumbling from his chest. His thumb grazes over my cheekbone, lingering there as if I might vanish if he lets go.
“I love you,” I whisper, and this time my voice is steady. “You are the only man I want.”
His eyes close for a moment, as though he’s absorbing the words, sealing them into the cracks of his soul. When they open, there’s no cold steel left—only fire. “And I love you,” he murmurs, bending closer, his lips brushing mine with a tenderness that still disarms me. “Always.”
The corridor is dim, quiet, the kind of silence that makes every breath feel louder. He presses me back against the wall before I can say a word, his mouth finding mine. His lips taste faintly of wine and salt, soft at first, then firmer, hungrier, pulling me deeper into him.
