Page 16 of Blood Debt

Two sentences, scrawled in thick ink:

STAY OFF THE BELLAROSA CASE. WE ARE WATCHING

My pulse roars in my ears. I blink, but the words don’t change.

Bianca beams at me like she’s just delivered a treasure.

“Good job, baby,” I say softly, smoothing her hair back. My voice barely holds. “We’ll talk when we get home. Right now, I want you to go with Nonna, okay?”

She pouts. “Why’s everyone sad?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Just go with Nonna for now, okay?”

She nods and kisses my cheek.

Then she skips back to my mother, who clutches her close, whispering prayers into her hair. Together, they walk toward the car.

Tony signals one of the patrolmen. “I want a plain clothes vehicle on them. Full shadow detail. Do not lose them.”

The officer nods and moves to obey.

I watch them pull away.

Then I turn to Tony and hand him the paper. He reads it and sighs.

“I want to go undercover. I want to take them down.”

He exhales hard. “Don’t be hasty. This doesn’t mean anything.”

I step closer. “Don’t bullshit me! They must have linked me to Isla. What’s to stop them from hurting Bianca?”

I hold his gaze, steady as I can. “First they took Isla, now Bianca? I can’t sit still. They know my child! I have to end this.”

He nods slowly, eyes dark. “I’ll have them relocated under secure civilian protection. New addresses, new names. They’ll be watched, twenty-four hours.”

I breathe in. “That’s not enough. I need to know why Isla died and why they have their eyes on me. I can’t do that sitting here in Rome.”

Tony stares at me wearily, then he sighs and says. “Fine, let’s see what we can do.”

I follow him to the car, fists clenched.

Not my daughter! Not her!

Chapter 4 - Cristofano

Bellarosa Estate, Melbourne

The needle slips into the skin with a practiced flick of the wrist.

My father flinches—barely—but I catch it.

Elena, the nurse, murmurs something soft in Italian, eyes downcast. She presses a cotton pad to the injection site and withdraws with the quiet deference of someone trained to survive proximity to power.

My father huffs through his nose and glares at me over the collar of his robe.

“You offended her,” he says flatly. His voice is thin but steady, still sharp enough to cut. He is talking about my date.

I fold my arms, leaning against the frame of the bedroom window. The view outside is golden with late morning—hazy light spilling over the vineyard and the trellised paths beyond the hedge wall.