Page 84 of Blood Debt

I step closer. She spots me over Matteo’s shoulder, shoves him hard enough to make him stagger, and closes the distance in a run. Her perfume hits before her arms do, looping around my neck.

“Cristo—”

I catch her wrists, peel her off me. “I just told my father I’m marrying another woman.”

Her painted mouth parts, then tightens. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Blue Moon is in a few weeks.”

I say nothing.

Her eyes narrow, searching my face, then widen. “It’s the maid, isn’t it?”

Her palm cracks across my cheek. The sting is sharp, the spit that follows sharper.

“You humiliate me—over her?!” she screams.

“My family will send their apologies to yours,” I say evenly.

“She isn’t good for you.” Her gaze hardens, voice pitched low but shaking. “She’s not missing you. She met with your enemy. Vitale. I have proof.”

I tilt my head. “And so what?”

Her mouth falls open, outrage flaring. “So what? Have you lost your mind?” She takes a step closer, chin high.

“How do you know that?”

Her perfectly shaped lips stay closed, but her eyes give her away.

I let a slow, cold smile pull at my mouth. “Because he’s your cousin, isn’t he?”

She flinches, just enough for me to catch it. “That doesn’t mean I’m on his side.”

“No?” My tone is razor-edged amusement. I step back, already done with this conversation. “Have a good day, Alessandra.”

Her manicured fingers grab my sleeve. “Cristo—”

“Matteo,” I say without looking at her, “see Signora Morelli out.”

She’s still calling my name when I turn my back, her voice echoing down the hall. Matteo’s eyes flick to mine over her shoulder, unreadable, before he guides her away.

Chapter 20 – Alessandra

Private Suite, South Wharf Penthouse

The door gives way beneath my shoulder, and I stumble inside barefoot, one heel dangling from my fingers, the other still strapped to my foot. A half-finished glass of red wine sways dangerously in my other hand.

The room smells of sweat, cigar smoke, and the faint tang of leather. Marcello Vitale stands in the center, shirtless, his pale skin gleaming in the dim light. A coiled whip hangs loose in his right hand, the handle still warm from use. Three men kneel on the carpet in front of him, heads bowed, backs tense as if bracing for the next strike.

When he sees me, he exhales then snaps the whip once, not to strike but to punctuate his annoyance.

“Get out of my sight,” he says, voice soft but edged with steel.

The kneeling men scatter like startled birds, nearly tripping over one another in their rush for the door. The sound of it slamming shut behind them leaves the room in a thick, watchful silence.

I let my body collapse onto his wide bed, silk sheets sighing beneath me. I hold out the wine glass toward him like a peace offering. “Drink. It’ll sweeten your mood.”

His icy gaze drifts over me before he turns away, hanging the whip on a hook by the wall. “Who let you in?”

I smirk, swirling the wine lazily. “Sucked the right dick.” I take a slow sip, the grin tugging at my mouth widening at his visible wince. “Don’t look so scandalized.”