Page 104 of Blood Debt

We step into the room, cages lining the walls like a gallery of sins. The dim bulbs overhead cast long shadows across steel bars and the grotesque trophies within: knives dulled from use, scraps of bloodstained shirts, broken chains, pieces of men who once thought they could defy us.

Matteo halts, his breath catching. “There,” he mutters.

I follow his gaze.

A small, delicate shape glints faintly on the dusty floor of the third cage. My pulse stutters. I crouch, squinting through the bars. A ring. Silver. Worn smooth at the edges. And there, etched faintly on the inside: YLA.

The initials brand themselves into me like fire.

“What the fuck,” Matteo whispers, crouching beside me. “That’s a woman’s ring.”

I straighten slowly, my hands curling into fists. A woman’s ring doesn’t belong here. Not in this room.

“You know the rules,” I say, my voice low. “We do not torture women. Never. Not once.”

Matteo shakes his head, his face pale in the dim light. “Then what the hell is it doing here?”

I stare at the ring as if it might answer. My chest tightens, that image of her face—Serafina’s broken, accusing eyes—flashing again and again in my mind. I saw her ring in your cage.

Her friend.

I drag in a sharp breath. My thoughts spiral. Did one of my men break the code? Impossible. I’d know. I’d fucking know. Unless—

Matteo looks up at me, realization dawning. “Cristofano….” His voice drops to a whisper. “This was planted.”

I snap my head toward him.

He swallows, his jaw tight. “Someone put it here to make her see it. To make you look guilty.”

The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in. My pulse pounds in my ears. My voice escapes me. “Spies.”

We lock eyes. For the first time in years, Matteo looks unsettled.

****

I sit back in a wooden chair, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled under my chin. My cigarette burns low, smoke curling like ghosts around my face. Across from me, two men kneel—guards I’d once trusted. Now, their shirts are torn, blood seeping through fabric where Matteo’s fists and blades already worked. It took a few hours to catch them, Marcello’s spies. A surprise search caught them with foreign Bluetooth receivers. All this while they had been communicating directly with Marcello.

Matteo stands to my right, rolling his shoulders, his knuckles still stained red. His expression is blank—except for the vein throbbing in his temple.

The men are shaking, their heads bowed, but their voices quaver as they speak.

“It…it was him,” the first stammers, spitting blood to the floor. “The order came from Vitale.”

Marcello. His name coils in my chest like venom.

Matteo’s head snaps up. “What order?”

The second man raises his bruised face, fear flickering in his swollen eyes. “To plant the ring in the cages.” He swallows hard. “And to watch her. The maid.”

Every word hammers through me. My hand clenches around the cigarette until ash drops to the floor.

“When?” Matteo demands, his voice like a whip.

The men flinch in unison. One whispers, “End of last year.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. My jaw locks so tightly my teeth ache. End of last year…before Serafina ever stepped foot in Melbourne. Before she’d been placed under my roof.

This wasn’t chance. It was a game, carefully drawn, and we were already dancing on strings.