Page 32 of Blood Debt

Now here he was. Why did I never ask his name?

I press my forehead to my knees. My breath jerks in shallow, aching bursts.

My daughter’s father is a murderer.

My voice breaks against the ceramic silence. “I need to leave.”

Then a sharper, fractured whisper— “Oh fuck…”

Tears spill across my cheeks.

“I need to leave.”

****

The tile is cold against the backs of my thighs. My chest aches with shallow, uneven breaths. I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been sitting on the floor—seconds, minutes—time spills in broken loops between the tremble of my hands and the roar in my ears.

I should move.

I push off the floor with both palms, knees unsteady as I rise. My legs don’t want to hold me. My right foot slips slightly on the tile. I catch myself against the wall, one arm braced against the ceramic. My other hand clutches my stomach—reflex. Like I could hold in the panic if I pressed hard enough.

He saw me.

He looked at me. Really looked at me.

Did he know?

Would he say it if he did? Or would he wait—until I exhaled, until I believed I was safe—then strike?

My shoulders shake. I pace in a short circle. The bathroom is too small. Too close. My elbows brush the towel hook. I turn again. The hem of my trousers swishes at my ankles.

I can’t breathe.

I’m not safe here. He isn't the sexy stranger I met years ago. He kills people.

I’m not safe.

He’d kill me.

Cristofano Vittorio Bellarosa would put a bullet through my skull and sleep like nothing happened.

I slap a hand against my thigh, feel for the flat disc beneath the waistband of my pants. Thin plastic. Embedded transmitter. I flick it twice, hard.

A soft click. Connection.

The line hisses once, then settles.

“Talk to me,” Tony’s voice comes through, low and steady. “Are you in?”

My hand covers my mouth. “I’m pulling out.”

My voice is so thin it almost doesn’t sound like me.

“I’m leaving. I can’t—Tony—I can’t do this. I’m going to sneak out. Tonight. I’ll climb the wall if I have to.”

I’m pacing again, shoulder brushing the edge of the sink. My reflection flickers in the mirror—eyes wide, unfocused, mouth moving faster than it should.

“He’ll kill me if he knows—if he remembers—he’ll kill me.”