Page 34 of Blood Debt
Chapter 8 – Cristofano
Warehouse 17B, Outer Docklands, Melbourne
The stink of diesel and rotting wood sticks to the walls of the warehouse like it’s soaked into the concrete. The roof groans every few minutes, wind dragging against rusted panels high above. Sunlight barely filters through the broken windows, casting long, fractured stripes across the floor like prison bars.
He kneels in the middle of the room.
They always kneel by the end.
His face is swollen—purple blooms under both eyes, one of them leaking. His nose is crooked now, blood smeared across his lips. His arms are tied behind his back with plastic cable ties, his shirt soaked through with sweat and his own piss.
He keeps trying to meet my eyes.
I light the cigarette with slow precision. Pull the flame close. Let the tip burn bright, then dim as I bring it to my lips. The smoke is bitter. It curls around my jawline like steam rising from steel.
I step closer.
My boots make no sound on the concrete. Just the shift of my weight. The leather whispering with movement.
“I didn’t sell anything,” the man says. His voice is wet. It grates from somewhere low in his throat, like he’s swallowed gravel. “I swear, I didn’t—”
I crouch in front of him.
His gaze flickers. There it is—fear. I hold the cigarette between two fingers and tap the ash gently onto the back of his hand.
He flinches, a high sound escaping him.
I don’t move. I hold it there. Let the smoke sting his eyes.
“You took five crates from Dock 4,” I say quietly. “And gave them to people who were not ours.”
“I thought they were ours,” he stammers. “The same van—same tag—”
“You thought.”
I press the cigarette slowly against the fabric at his collarbone. There’s a faint hiss as it meets damp cotton and then—skin.
He screams.
I don’t look away.
Behind me, Matteo watches. His hand twitches near his belt, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I speak calmly.
“No one moves our product without clearance. No one touches a single box without a shadow behind them. You knew that.”
The man is sobbing now, shoulders shaking.
“I—I have kids….”
“So do half the men who do their job properly.”
I stand and flick the cigarette to the floor.
“Matteo,” I say, not turning. “Finish it.”
There’s a pause.
