Page 87 of Blood Debt
The room stills. My heel falters on the carpet.
“You’re lying,” I whisper, though my voice betrays a flicker of doubt.
He tilts his head, all mock innocence. “I can’t lie…not after an orgasm.” His grin is wolfish now, sharp enough to cut.
I step toward him despite myself, searching his expression for a tell. He lets me look, lets me stew in the possibility. How could that be?
“They’ve met each other before,” Marcello answers without needing to hear my thoughts.
He doesn’t look like he’s lying. No wonder Cristofano, famous for barely paying attention to any women, was suddenly obsessed with her. She was a ghost from his past.
“If,” he drawls, “you can give me a little more of a…treat”—his eyes sweep down my frame in blatant suggestion—“I can get rid of the girl for you, too. The girl and the mother…gone.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the faint crackle of his cigar. My pulse hammers in my throat, and the wine from earlier feels sour in my mouth.
His smirk widens. “Imagine it, Alessandra. No competition.”
I draw in a sharp breath, my hand tightening on the strap of my heel until my knuckles ache.
The idea is poison. But poison…can be useful.
Cristofano doesn’t understand yet that I’m the best thing for him. But he will learn soon.
I still remember our first date. Most men melted under my smile, stumbled over their words, and tried too hard to impress me. But not him.
His eyes didn’t linger on my neckline, didn’t soften when I laughed. If anything, he looked…bored.
And that fascinated me.
It was me chasing him, for the first time in my life. When I tossed the wine at him, he remained uninterested, and my pulse hammered. No man had ever denied me the power of reaction. I knew then—I wanted him.
That very night, I reached out to Don Vittorio. I told him plainly: I want to marry your son.
One day, I’ll nurse him back from ruin, pour my inheritance into rebuilding him, and we’ll disappear somewhere warm and sunlit, far from all this blood and business.
But first, Marcello has to break him. Shatter him in a way only I can mend.
I lean back against the pillows, swirling the last of my wine, watching Marcello’s bare shoulders flex as he closes the door behind the last of his whipped lackeys. The metallic tang of fear still hangs in the air.
“Don’t play with me, Marcello,” I say, my voice low, the stem of my glass tapping against my ring.
He turns, the corner of his mouth curling into that infuriating smirk. “On my honor,” he drawls, each syllable a mockery, “I’ll hand him to you when he’s crushed.”
I inhale slowly, letting the wine burn the back of my throat. My fingers tighten around the glass, weighing his words. The image rises—Cristofano, broken but breathing, realizing too late that I’m the only one who will stand by him.
I slip beneath the sheets beside him, careful not to spill a drop. His arm snakes around my waist, his skin warm, smelling faintly of smoke and leather. His lips brush my ear.
“Now,” he murmurs, almost amused, “where did we stop?”
I roll my eyes—because I’ll never give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly I want him to keep his word.
****
The first fingers of dawn stretch over the horizon, bleeding pale gold into the indigo night. The villa smells of last night. I step through Marcello’s private hall barefoot, my heels dangling from my fingers, their red soles glinting faintly in the low light. My blouse hangs half-fastened, one button missing entirely; the silk is creased, carrying the faint scent of his cologne. My skirt sits askew on my hips, its zipper crooked. My hair is now an unrepentant mess, with the faint stickiness of his touch still clinging to the strands.
The marks on my neck are impossible to miss. Hickeys blooming like bruised flowers along my pale skin. I lift mychin a fraction as I pass the open archway to the courtyard, ignoring the eyes that follow me. The early workers are already moving about—gardeners, stable boys, men in pressed shirts and loosened ties carrying crates. Their conversations falter.
Let them stare.
