Page 77 of Blood Debt
Before I can answer, Alessandra squeezes my fingers and leans in with a slow, feline smile. “He’s having me.”
I don’t look at her. “She’s about to leave,” I say, and finally my gaze cuts back to Serafina. “I’ll have coffee.”
Serafina bows. “At once.”
Alessandra chuckles, brushing a sleek strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be back,” she tosses over her shoulder as she leaves, her heels clicking sharply against the marble.
As soon as she’s out of sight, I step forward and catch Serafina by the waist, pulling her just enough that I can feel the tension coil in her body. “Pay her no mind,” I murmur.
She shoves me back—firm and her voice is cool, servile, without an inch of tremor. “With respect, I would appreciate it if you kept the lines clear. I am your fling. Signora is your fiancée.”
She bows and walks out without looking back.
Chapter 17 – Serafina
Bellarosa Estate
I fold the last of my blouses into the leather weekend bag, pressing the zipper closed. The room smells faintly of lemon polish—my own doing from this morning—and underneath it, the faint musk of him that seems to cling to everything in this house. I try not to think of the image of him carrying his fiancée earlier today. What right did I have to be mad?
Two days. That’s all I told Matteo I needed. A simple visit to an “aunt” in Melbourne. He didn’t question it. Tony arranged the real meeting—a man who claims he can help me take Cristofano down for good. One day for him. One day to find a safe line and hear Bianca’s voice. Just the thought of her makes my chest tighten.
I’m rolling my phone charger when a knock sounds at the door. My breath catches. Matteo wouldn’t knock like that—hesitant, almost polite. I smooth my dress, school my face into calm, and pull the door open.
Cristofano steps inside without a word, his height and presence swallowing the space. Before I can react, his arms are around me, pulling me in. My muscles tense automatically, ready to push, but God—he’s warm, and I hate how part of me wants to sink into him.
“What do you want?” My voice is sharper than I intend.
He doesn’t answer with words at first. He lowers his head and kisses me, tasting faintly of smoke and coffee. When he finally pulls back, there’s a flicker in his steel eyes. “You forgot to bring my coffee today.”
I blink, thrown by the mundane accusation. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, because that’s what Elia Rosetti, meek head maid, would say.
His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like satisfaction—and he edges me toward the bed. “It’s evening,” he says, voice low. “How about I have you for dinner instead?”
I roll my eyes, trying to hide the sudden thrum in my pulse. “Wasn’t your fiancée enough?”
“She’s not what I want,” he says without hesitation. “You are. And I’ll choose you.”
The weight of those words makes something in me hitch, but I force myself to look away. He tilts my chin back until I meet his gaze, and his voice softens in a way that is far more dangerous than his threats. “I missed you so much.”
I don’t let the words sink in. I can’t afford to. But the heat of him, the memory of his mouth on mine, is already a betrayal I feel in my bones.
He stands over me at the edge of the bed, close enough that I can hear every breath. His eyes are locked on mine—dark, burning with danger and beautiful all at once.
Before I can speak, his hand catches my wrist and pulls me in. His mouth crashes onto mine, lips urgent, hungry. The kiss is hot and deep, his tongue sweeping against mine, tasting, claiming. My own breath comes hard, each inhale dragging his scent into me—spice, heat, things I can’t name.
I feel him exhale into the kiss, then inhale me like he can’t get enough. His lips press harder, his teeth catching my bottom lip before he lets it go.
Then his hands slide to my waist, guiding me backward until the backs of my thighs meet the bed. His touch softens, and he lowers me down until I’m sitting, then leaning back into the sheets.
It makes me frown. “Why are you being gentle?”
He kneels beside me, one hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, his gaze steady. “Do you think of me as a cruel man?”
I meet his eyes, my pulse loud in my ears. “You are cruel.”
His lips curve—not quite a smile. He leans down and kisses me again, slower this time, letting the heat build between us. My breath hitches when his hands go to the buttons of my maid’s uniform, undoing them one by one.
The fabric parts under his fingers, cool air rushing over my skin. His mouth leaves mine to trail down my jaw, then to my collarbone. When the uniform is open, he slides it off my shoulders, baring me to the waist.
