Page 25 of Blood Debt
She stops at the end of the hallway and unlocks the door.
“There you go,” she mutters, tossing the key on the bedside table.
Then she turns and spots a man walking out of another room, shirtless, reeking of beer. She grins and jumps on him without warning, her arms looping around his neck. They stumble back into his room, giggling, and the door slams shut behind them.
I blink.
Then I step inside and close the door quietly.
The room is dim, lit only by a single yellowed lamp. The bedspread is faded floral. The walls are a pale shade of beige, chipped at the corners. A small desk sits under the window, and on the bed, a large brown envelope rests neatly against the pillows.
I set the suitcase down, lock the door, and pick up the envelope.
Inside: a crisp folder with my alias documents. Domestic worker clearance. Employment references. A matching photo ID with my face and a new birth date. There’s a folded sheet with my fabricated backstory—early years in Naples, trained in housework, no family ties.
A burner phone falls out last. It’s cheap. No contacts.
I check the desk drawer. Inside are two pairs of washed, shapeless uniforms. Off-white. Cotton. Practical. I run a thumb across the hem and sigh.
The phone buzzes.
One new message.
Tony: Interview is tomorrow at 10 a.m. local time. You’ll do fine. Be careful. And good luck.
I set the phone on the nightstand and sit down on the edge of the bed.
The springs creak beneath me.
Outside, someone shouts. Laughter. Then silence again.
I close my eyes.
Isla’s face drifts in behind my lids—smiling in the precinct locker room, shaking her head at something I said, tying her hair back before a stakeout. The grit of her. The loyalty.
“I’ll make it right,” I whisper.
And I will.
I open my eyes and lie back fully, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
Tomorrow, it begins.
Chapter 6 – Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate, Melbourne
My father is eating grapes.
That’s how I know this argument will go nowhere.
He’s reclined on the upper terrace in full sun, a silk blanket tucked over his knees and a crystal dish of washed green grapes balanced beside the arm of his wheelchair. He plucks one slowly, savors it like a ritual, and looks up at me with the exact expression he wore when I was sixteen and caught lying about sneaking out of the estate.
Playful.
Unmoved.
And stubborn as hell.
