Page 89 of Blood Debt

Packing up my life into two bags, boarding a flight to Italy, and walking straight into the arms of the authorities—asking for asylum and protection for me, for Mama, for Bianca.

I have the files I came for. The job’s done.

But then I see Isla’s face. I hear her laugh, cut short. I see the note left for me. I remember the targets that could appear on Bianca’s small back the moment Cristofano realizes what I’ve done.

And Marcello’s voice echoes in my head. If you ruin this for me, I will kill you.

I’m too far gone now.

My hands work automatically, dismantling the special laptop piece by piece—screen, base, drive—until it’s nothing more than harmless parts. I slide each component into its protective wrapping, nestle them into a plain bag, and scrawl a quick note to the local contact Tony arranged:

"For Tony. Secure delivery. Urgent."

The bag goes by the door. My original travel bag, the one I brought to the Bellarosa estate, is zipped up and waiting.

I stand still for a beat, staring at the drab motel wallpaper as I breathe in. Then I turn the knob, step into the corridor, and check out at the front desk like it’s just another day.

In less than a week, it will be over. One way or another.

Outside, the morning air is cool and sharp. I flag down a taxi.

“Bellarosa estate gates,” I tell the driver.

His eyes go wide in the rearview mirror. “What, you tryna get me killed?” he mutters, half-laughing, half-serious. He shakes his head, muttering something in Greek, and hits the gas anyway.

As the city blurs past, I press my forehead to the glass and wonder—for the first time, really wonder—if I’ve completely lost my mind going back there.

****

Bellarosa Estate Gates

The cab rolls to a slow stop in front of the wrought-iron gates. The driver glances at me in the mirror, then names a fare that’s nearly double what it should be.

I blink at him. “That’s—”

He shrugs, one hand drumming on the wheel. “Bellarosa prices. Take it or walk.”

My lips press into a thin line. I slide the notes forward without another word. As soon as they leave my fingers, he snatches them up and peels away so fast the dust kicks at my legs. I’m left standing alone, the imposing silhouette of the gates looming over me.

I inhale slowly. My hand finds my braid, tugging it forward over my shoulder as I smooth down the wrinkles in my dress. My spine straightens, my face softens, and I let my eyes lower—timid, unthreatening, exactly what they expect to see.

The gates swing inward.

“You’re here.”

I turn my head and there he is—Cristofano—dressed in nothing but a dark, fitted T-shirt that makes him look younger, somehow more dangerous in his ease.

He closes the space between us in three long strides, the faint scent of clean soap and tobacco wrapping around mebefore his arms do. His hands lock across my back, firm and sure, pulling me into the breadth of his chest. I feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing before I hear it.

He dips his head, his nose brushing the side of my hair as he inhales me like he’s been starved of this. “You’re back,” he says against my ear, the words heavy with something I can’t name.

My heart lurches before I remind myself why I left and why I came back.

His arms are iron bands around me, crushing the air from my lungs. I hold my breath, caught between the need to shove him away and the way his warmth sinks into my bones after two days without it.

Then my feet leave the ground.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, fierce but breathless as his shoulder shifts under my ribs.