Page 23 of Blood Debt
I close the folder slowly.
Tony watches me. “This man, Serafina—he’s not just powerful. He’s insulated. Loyalists. Private security. Legal buffers. His hands look clean. But we’ve had bodies. We’ve had money trails. Now we need proof.”
I shift in my seat, eyes narrowing on the horizon. “Which is where I come in.”
Tony nods once, then reaches beneath the seat and pulls out a small matte-black box. He sets it in my lap. The lid clicks open with a soft snap.
Inside: three button mics, a frequency scanner, a micro-lens camera disguised in a hairpin, and a flash drive coded to auto-encrypt upon extraction.
“I need paper,” he says. “Proof. Shipment logs. Inventory discrepancies. Financials. Anything that ties their ports to narcotics traffic.”
I nod, closing the box. “I’ll get it.”
He doesn’t smile. But his voice lowers. “You shouldn’t have to.”
I look out the window. “I made Isla a promise.”
He watches me quietly. Then reaches into his coat pocket and slides a slip of paper toward me. “Address for your arrival. Small motel just outside Melbourne. You’ll check in under Rosetti. The rest of the briefing will be waiting for you there.”
I glance down. An ordinary scribbled name: Hollingwood Lodge – Room 6
The car slows.
The airport terminal looms up ahead, gray and impersonal beneath a hazy afternoon sun. Taxis inch forward. Porters in navy vests weave between luggage carts. Somewhere, above the clouds, a plane is taking off with a sound like thunder cracking bone.
The driver eases to a stop at the departure drop.
I open the door, stepping out into the heavy heat. The wheels of my carry-on bump softly over the curb.
Tony gets out behind me.
He stops just beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder. His expression softens—but only a little.
“Watch your back in there,” he says.
I nod.
He steps back.
I straighten, grip the handle of my suitcase tighter, and walk toward the terminal doors.
My pulse is steady now. Controlled.
At the entrance, a woman behind the ticket desk scans my passport and smiles politely.
“Enjoy Melbourne,” she says.
I smile back, just enough to pass. “I will.”
****
Melbourne, Australia
The arrivals gate at Tullamarine is loud and fluorescent—metallic voices on intercoms, heels clacking against tile, the distant roll of suitcase wheels like static. I pass through immigration with my head down and a faint smile on my lips. Elia Rosetti. Domestic worker. No criminal record. A backstory so clean it almost squeaks.
Outside, the wind hits warmer than Rome. The sky is dark now—deep navy stretching into the tram wires and towerlights. It’s past 9 p.m., but the streets haven’t slowed. Neon signs buzz. The highway murmurs like an old machine still running long past its prime.
I step to the curb, dragging my suitcase behind me. One of the wheels sticks every few feet.
