Page 81 of Blood Debt

The man leads me to a black Maserati parked under a tree. He opens the passenger door with a courtly flourish that feels more like a dare than a courtesy. I hesitate only long enough to note his pale blue eyes studying me, assessing what I’ll do when the wolf invites me into his den.

The leather interior swallows me in the scent of money. He slides behind the wheel with unhurried precision, gloves creasing against the steering column.

“Marcello Vitale,” he says finally, as if offering me the punchline to a very old joke.

I nod once. “I know the name.”

His lips curve faintly. “And yours?”

I let the question hang, my eyes fixed on the window. A slow smile spreads across his face.

“You’re smart,” he says.

We pull away from the curb, the hum of the engine low and predatory. I look at his profile—sharp cheekbones, perfect grooming, the faint glint of lethality behind the polish.

“Are you mafia?” I ask, tone steady.

He glances at me, amused. “One of the oldest, most powerful families in Italy. And here in Australia? We have roots where the law doesn’t reach.”

No point in dancing around it. “Cristofano Bellarosa killed my friend,” I tell him, the words tasting like steel. “And he’s targeted my daughter. I want him gone.”

Marcello chuckles under his breath, fishing a silver case from his jacket. He taps out a cigarette, lights it, and exhales smoke that curls lazily toward the roof. “Direct. I like that.”

I watch him through the haze. “What do you want?”

He takes another drag, then turns his head toward me, his voice smoothing into something almost conspiratorial. “A Black Book.”

The word means nothing to me. My brow furrows. “Black Book?”

Marcello’s smile deepens, but there’s no warmth in it. “The thing that makes the Bellarosas untouchable—in Australia and in Italy. It’s not a ledger, not in the old-fashioned sense. It’s a microchip, encrypted to the marrow. Contains the complete record of every major mafia family’s…transactions. Deals, payments, betrayals. Proof that could topple dynasties and send their patriarchs to die in prison cells.”

The air feels tighter in my lungs. “And this…chip…?”

“Updated once every Blue Moon,” he says, rolling the phrase like it’s a superstition. “Only a Bellarosa can access it. High-tech security. The device doesn’t unlock with a password—it recognizes blood. Their blood. That’s why the family always marries on the Blue Moon. To bind new blood into the legacy.”

The pieces start to shift in my head. Don Vittorio’s insistence that Cristofano find a wife before the Blue Moon. His almost desperate push for it.

I lean back into the seat, watching the city lights fracture against the glass, and think: Now I know what they’re really guarding.

I cross my arms and stare at him. “If you want the Black Book, it’s impossible.”

Marcello’s pale blue eyes glint with something sharp. “Impossible?” He leans in, close enough for me to catch the smoke on his breath. “Do you think getting rid of the Bellarosas is easy?”

Marcello’s laugh is low and dark, curling in my ears like smoke. “Cristofano and the Italian police are tighter than you think. When Tony called me about you—about your little mission to get rid of him—I had a good laugh. Thought you were suicidal.” He takes another drag, exhaling slowly before continuing. “Then Tony told me you’d stolen intel from him. I was…curious.”

I keep my face still, but my pulse drums hard in my wrists.

“With the Black Book,” he says, his voice dropping as if the words themselves are worth guarding, “I can turn families into allies. We crush the Bellarosas together, and you—” he tilts his head, “—you can finally breathe in peace.”

“So, how do I get this chip?”

“You just need to marry him,” Marcello says, leaning back like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “have your blood added to the system, and bring me the chip. I’ll take it from there.”

Marry him? It sounded extreme, but who am I kidding? Cristofano is a powerful man. Amateur moves won’t take him out.

I sit there, fingers knotting in my lap, weighing the cost. “And Cristofano? Will he live?”

Marcello’s lips twitch. “I can break his limbs and leave him for you. You seem…smitten.”