Page 53 of Blood Debt
I count to three hundred after the last sound fades. Then I rise.
The hallway outside is dark. One low light buzzes near the landing, casting long shadows against the wall.
I move like I’ve practiced. I pass two guards near the courtyard hallway. One of them nods. I nod back. We are co-workers, I am just doing my job like they are doing theirs, so they think.
Just a maid doing end-of-night checks.
Cristofano’s office is on the second floor, nestled in the east wing behind double walnut doors with a brass keyhole. I cleaned it three times this week—under supervision once, alone twice. He never locked it at night. Too arrogant. Too secure in his control.
Tonight, that helps me.
I reach the doors and try the handle.
It gives. I slip in.
And close it behind me.
The only light comes from the crack in the window curtain where the moon slices in silver through dust motes. The walls are lined in books and weapon plaques. His desk sits near the center. I move to the filing cabinet first. It's locked.
But the drawer beneath his desk isn’t.
I kneel, slowly, and slide it open.
My fingers ghost across the pages of a thick leather-bound ledger. The contents are coded, but I’ve seen enough reports to know the shape of movement: shipments, dates, abbreviations for ports. It’s not enough to prove anything yet, but it's a start. I look at the laptop and I am about to open it when I hear it.
A low sound. A groan—long, drawn out.
I go still.
Not the creak of floorboards or the sweep of passing feet. Not even muffled voices.
A human sound. I set the ledger down soundlessly and rise, breath shallow.
Another sound follows. A breath. Then a faint moan.
My pulse flinches. I step around the desk, slow and soft, letting my footsteps melt into the carpet. I edge past the mounted liquor cabinet and angle toward the darker corner of the office, the one near the tall back wingchair facing the window. The moonlight spills just enough to outline the furniture, but not who’s sitting in it.
Another soft groan. This one is unmistakable.
I squint through the dark.
Cristofano.
He’s seated. Slouched back. His head tilted up, eyes half-closed, jaw tight. His left hand is gripping the chair arm. The right is stroking his–
Oh God.
I curse under my breath. “Shit.”
He’s touching himself. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t hear me.
But I do not wait to find out how long that luck holds.
I step back, heel first. Then another. No creaks, no noise.
But then—his voice.
“Stop right there.”
