Page 24 of Blood Debt
A cab pulls up, sudden and clean—cream-colored, slightly rusted around the edges. The driver leans across the passenger seat and squints out at me through the open window.
“You Elia?”
I pause. Then nod. “Yes.”
“Get in then, love. I don’t bite.”
He hops out, grinning beneath his ballcap, and pops the trunk with a kick. He takes my suitcase with a grunt, then opens the door like a chauffeur in a B-movie.
I slide in. The seat is sticky from the heat.
He climbs back in, slams the door, and peels out like we’re late for something.
“A man called Marcus booked me,” he says, glancing at me through the rearview. “Said you needed a friendly face. I told him I’m the friendliest on this side of the Yarra.”
It’s Tony. I smile faintly. “Good to know.”
“Not that the Yarra’s got much charm left, eh? But never mind that—this your first time in Melbourne?”
I nod again, watching the blur of graffiti-tagged bridges and blinking intersections.
“Ahh, you'll love it. Bit rough in spots, but she’s got heart. And food. God, the food. Are you a dumpling person? You look like a dumpling person.”
My lips twitch. “I like food.”
“Good answer. You got style, too. Fancy threads.”
I glance down. My dark trousers and crisp blouse—the kind of outfit that blends well in Rome but sticks out here like a sore thumb. He’s not wrong.
We drive for nearly thirty minutes, deeper into the city, past wide roads that narrow into backstreets and fading shopfronts with steel shutters pulled halfway down. He hums to himself at the lights.
Finally, he pulls up beside a crumbling motel with flickering signage that reads Hollingwood Lodge. Half the “L” is missing.
“Here we are. Cozy little slice of Melbourne nightlife.”
On the footpath, a group of young men stumbles past, one shirtless and laughing, a beer bottle in each hand. Two women in short skirts smoke by the entrance, arguing over who left the lighter in someone’s car.
“Not exactly castle material,” the driver mutters, pulling my suitcase out of the trunk, “but hey, Marcus paid me double my rate, so you won’t hear me complain.”
He gives a mock salute, then climbs back into his cab and speeds off with a honk.
I stand still for a beat, staring up at the crooked balcony railings and stained concrete facade.
This is it.
I square my shoulders, exhale, and drag my suitcase up the two shallow steps into the front office. The overhead light buzzes loudly. The lobby smells like cheap disinfectant and cigarette ash.
A girl barely in her twenties slouches behind the register, her eyeliner smudged, hair in a half-hearted bun. A bottle of Coke is sweating beside her elbow. She doesn’t look up right away, flipping lazily through a reservation ledger.
“I have a booking,” I say.
She yawns, then glances up. “Name?”
“Elia Rosetti.”
Her eyes scan the page, finger dragging across several crooked lines. “Yeah. Room six. Upstairs. Follow me.”
She walks ahead without another word, grabbing a loose key ring from a hook as she goes. Her bare feet slap softly against the wooden stairs, which groan with every step. I follow, dragging the suitcase behind me, feeling the uneven boards shift beneath my feet.
