Page 4 of Blood Debt

I had wanted time with Bianca. Just a few more months to be the kind of mother who helped with homework, who braided her daughter’s hair before school. Isla agreed without hesitation, because that was who she was—reckless with her own life, generous with everyone else’s. My best friend. My sister.

Six months. Six months of silence, where I told myself she was undercover. But then…the call. The Melbourne police. A body in the bushes, burnt until it was unrecognizable. They only knew it was her because of the DNA.

My Isla turned to ash.

The trafficking ring had sniffed her out, torn her cover apart, and killed her. And I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t there.

I picture the way Bianca’s drawings for “Auntie Isla” had piled up on the kitchen counter, bright colors and stick figures meant to make her smile when she returned. I picture myself folding them away in a drawer after the funeral, choking on my own sobs.

He stares past me for a moment. “We’ll get the bastards who did it.”

I breathe out once. “Then let me help.”

His gaze snaps back to mine. “No.”

I lift my chin. “Sir, I’m Italian. I was born into half the dialects they’re using.”

“I’m Italian too,” he interrupts, sharp but quiet. “And I’m telling you: no.”

He doesn’t blink.

“I’m not sending you out there,” he says. “I already buried one cop this week. I won’t do two.”

He swallows whatever else he wants to say. His hand brushes my arm once, a hollow gesture—more human than professional. Then he walks away.

I don’t stop him.

****

Later, the house begins to empty.

People say their goodbyes in murmurs, coats pulled tight as they slip into the storm. The coffee has gone cold inuntouched cups. The fire has burned low. Only the sound of drizzle and door hinges remains.

I stay behind.

Luca stands at the dining table, shirt wrinkled, collarbone sharp beneath his white dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled past the elbow, and he’s organizing something—boxes, framed photos, folded linen from the guests. His eyes are glazed but focused, like movement is the only thing anchoring him to now.

“I can help,” I offer softly.

He doesn’t respond at first. Then he nods. One slow motion. I take a tray of empty glasses to the kitchen, come back to find him kneeling by the low cabinet where Isla used to keep her music and books.

He stands up, holding a small wooden box.

“She wanted you to have this,” he says.

My breath catches. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer—just holds it out.

The box is smooth, mahogany, heavier than it looks. There’s a red ribbon looped around the clasp, delicate and weathered. I hold it to my chest, and for a moment, I don’t know if I can breathe.

“Luca...” I whisper. “What are you going to do now?”

He stares at the hearth for a long moment before answering. “I’m going home.”

I blink. “To Florence?”