Page 17 of Blood Debt
“She was boring,” I say.
“She was refined,” he snaps. “She came from a bloodline older than Sicily.” He shrugs beneath the heavy blanket. “You’re too sensitive.”
“She threw wine at me.”
Elena finishes organizing the medication tray and stands, bowing slightly before backing out of the room without turning her back.
The moment she’s gone, Matteo slips in through the partially opened door.
He doesn’t speak until Elena is well out of earshot.
Then, in a low voice: “The informant’s on the line.”
I straighten and nod once.
My father notices the shift immediately. “Don’t you walk out on me.”
I start toward the hallway.
“I will get you another date,” he yells after me, voice rasping but loud. “And you will be charming!”
I don’t answer until we’re in the corridor.
“Make sure he has no access to phones,” I mutter to Matteo, keeping my pace steady. “Just herbal tea and warm oil massages.”
Matteo smirks. “That’ll last until he starts bribing the masseuse.”
“I said what I said.”
We walk side-by-side through the arched hallway of the estate. The walls are limestone, cool even in summer, lined with old family portraits and a few carefully chosen modern oils. A quiet reverence hums in the stone here. Blood has moved through these halls for generations.
The conference room is at the end of the west wing—a room paneled in dark oak, the windows shuttered against light. Matteo shuts the door behind us and locks it.
I sit at the head of the table and tap the speakerphone. A single red light blinks before the voice crackles through.
“I did what you asked,” the informant says. His voice is cautious. Careful not to carry too much weight.
I lean forward, elbows on the armrests. “Let’s rewind,” I say. “Just so I remember who’s playing what part.”
His breath stutters over the line.
And in my mind, I’m there again. Our conversation from yesterday.
“They’re coming for you,” he said. “Italy’s Bureau of Narcotics. They’re preparing an indictment.”
I didn’t move. “For?”
“Trafficking. Heroin shipments through ports you supposedly control.”
Matteo stood behind me, arms crossed. “We don’t deal heroin. We deal in ammunition.”
“We don’t even control any of the ports listed,” I added.
He nodded quickly. “Exactly. That’s what made me think you needed to know.”
I opened the file.
Photos. Grainy dockyard angles. Dates. Manifests. Port numbers.
