Page 33 of Blood Debt
“Serafina.” Tony’s voice sharpens, not loud, but anchoring. “Stop. Talk to me. What’s going on?”
I swallow hard. My fingers are shaking.
“I know him,” I whisper. “Cristofano. I’ve met him before.”
There’s a pause on the line.
Tony’s breath tightens. “You what?”
“I’ve met him. Once. Seven years ago. In Rome.”
I hear rustling on his end, a muttered curse under his breath. I don’t add more details; I tell myself I am being professional. But his silence tells me he is connecting the dots.
“Seven years is a long time,” he says. “You’re still alive, which means he either doesn’t remember you…or doesn’t care.”
I lean over the sink. My knuckles press white into the porcelain. My lips twitch with the threat of tears.
“What if I leave, and that’s what makes him notice?” I murmur. “What if he sees I ran and decides to look deeper?”
Tony doesn’t answer right away. I hear the faint squeak of his chair. A long breath.
“Serafina…listen to me. If you want to walk out, I’ll get you out. But leaving now—this early—is suspicious. If he hasn’t connected you yet, don’t give him a reason to.”
I close my eyes. The light above the mirror hums. My shoulders sag.
“Serafina.”
I open my eyes again.
“If you get us what we need—those documents, shipping logs, the paper trail—we can put him away. And you’re done. You’ll be out before he even knows you were here.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. I clutch the edge of the sink with both hands.
I inhale.
My shoulders still shake. My knees still feel wrong. But my breathing begins to even out. Just slightly.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“You’re not alone,” Tony says, voice soft now. “Not for one second.”
I tap the earpiece twice. The line goes dead.
I reach for the faucet, twist it on, and let cold water pool in my palms.
It splashes against my face, soaking into my collar. My skin tightens from the shock. My lashes drip.
I don’t dry my face. I square my shoulders.
I let my spine fall back into the submissive slouch they expect. I adjust my expression—dull, meek, grateful.
I unlock the bathroom door.
The bedroom is still. Curtains half-drawn. The cameras are still watching.
I cross to the bed and sit slowly, knees pressed together, hands folded on top.
I fix my gaze on the wardrobe. And I wait.
