Page 125 of Blood Debt

Matteo glances at Cristofano like a man hoping to be rescued. Cristofano exhales through his nose, clearly cornered, and finally admits, “We were…trying to make a cake.”

“A cake?” I echo, biting back a laugh.

Before I can press further, Bianca pipes up, her little voice carrying a note of mischief. “Daddy makes horrible cakes!”

Cristofano blinks, stunned, as though she’s just betrayed him in front of the entire syndicate. His mouth parts, and for once, Il Giudice—the Judge himself—looks genuinely flustered.

I can’t help it—I laugh. The sound feels strange after everything, but it tumbles out of me, warm and real. Bianca giggles too, clinging to my neck, and the baby stirs faintly against Cristofano’s chest.

I look at him, standing there, embarrassed, with flour dusting his dark shirt, a burnt cake on the counter, and both our children under this roof, alive. My heart swells until it aches. For the first time in so long, it feels like we’ve stepped into something that might be called peace.

I eye the scorched lump of cake on the counter, smoke still curling from its edges. My jaw tightens, and I turn to the three culprits: Cristofano—towering and trying to look dignified with flour on his shirt; Matteo—still glaring at the oven like it betrayed him; and Bianca—chocolate smudged across her cheek, clearly the only one who had enjoyed herself.

“You three,” I say, voice sharp but trembling at the edges of laughter, “are officially banned from the kitchen.”

The reaction is immediate.

“What?” Cristofano bristles, indignant.

“Oh, come on,” Matteo throws his hands up.

“Mama!” Bianca whines dramatically, tugging on my sleeve.

Their complaints overlap in a stream of protests, but I shake my head, already walking out toward the living room. “No negotiations,” I toss over my shoulder.

The protests follow me, voices tangling together until I lift my hand for silence. “Shh!” I snap, pulling my phone from my pocket. “Quiet.”

They fall silent—though I can practically feel Cristofano’s sulk from across the room—as I answer.

“Mama?” My mother’s voice is warm, threaded with static from the overseas line.

I sit on the edge of the sofa, pressing a hand to my chest. “Yes, Mama, it’s me.”

“I’m calling to tell you I booked my ticket,” she says in her lilting Italian. “I’ll be in Melbourne in two weeks. It’s time I come home to you and Bianca.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe. There’s so much she doesn’t know. About Cristofano, Bianca’s real father. About the blood, the betrayal, the lives lost. My throat tightens, but I remind myself: all that matters is that she and Bianca are safe. That we are safe.

I swallow hard and keep my voice steady. “That’s good, Mama. Call me when you land, all right?”

“I will,” she promises softly. “Ti voglio bene, figlia mia.”

“I love you too.”

When the call ends, I lower the phone slowly, staring at my reflection in the dark screen. My mother is coming. A new chapter is starting, and for once…it doesn’t terrify me.

I cross my arms as the three of them—Cristofano, Matteo, and Bianca—still argue their case about the burnt cake. Cristofano swears he followed the recipe; Matteo insists the oven is cursed; Bianca insists she only stirred the batter, and none of this is her fault. I shake my head, ready to scold them again, when the front door opens.

The sound of steady footsteps makes me pause.

“Grandpa!” Bianca squeals, abandoning her defense entirely. She darts across the room, her little arms stretching wide.

And then—just like that—Don Vittorio Bellarosa, the man who had once been confined to a wheelchair and tethered to machines, bends down and scoops her up as though she weighs nothing at all. His frail frame is gone; in its place stands a man restored, silver hair slicked back, gray eyes sharp, vitality flowing through him. He kisses Bianca’s cheek with a tenderness I never thought possible from him.

My breath catches.

It still astonishes me, even now, six months later. After everything—the betrayals, Marcello’s downfall, Tony’s treachery, the blood spilled—the greatest surprise was this: Vittorio choosing life. Choosing Bianca. Choosing us.

When he learned the truth—about me, about Cristofano, about Bianca—he had insisted I quit the police. And I did. The badge that had once defined me became a burden I could no longer carry. Tony’s betrayal, Isla’s death…they had scarred me too deeply. Vittorio demanded I stay in Melbourne with Bianca, that I stop running, stop fighting battles that only left graves behind.