Page 97 of Blood Debt

Despite myself, I smile, and he steps forward, wrapping me in a hug that smells like him—warm spice and somethingdarker, something dangerous. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my hair.

For a heartbeat, I wish he weren’t so perfect in moments like this.

When he releases me, I murmur an excuse and slip back to my room. The moment the door closes, I head straight for the bathroom, pulling out my hidden earpiece to contact Tony. Static answers me—no signal. My pulse kicks up.

I glance down at my wrist. The slim watch glints under the light. Marcello Vitale’s watch. My reminder.

It’ll be over soon.

Chapter 24 – Serafina

Bellarosa Estate

A hundred candles cast trembling halos of gold across the vaulted ceiling, the gilded edges of saints carved into the stone. My dress whispers against the crimson carpet as Cristofano leads me toward the marble altar, his hand warm and immovable around mine. It’s the night of the blue moon, our wedding night.

On the altar rests a shallow silver bowl, a goblet of deep wine, and two daggers with ivory handles. Don Vittorio waits behind them in his wheelchair, regal despite the frailty of his frame. His storm-grey eyes pin me in place before he speaks.

“Step forward,” he commands.

Cristofano positions me opposite him, palm to palm. The Don takes the knife. His voice is low but steady. “Blood binds deeper than vows.”

The blade kisses Cristofano’s hand first. A thin red line blooms, a drop falling into the bowl with a soft sound that echoes in the silence. Then the blade turns to me. My breath catches. I force myself not to flinch as it slices my skin, hot pain flaring before the blood beads up and spills down, mixing with his.

Our blood swirls together in the silver bowl. Red into red. No telling where mine ends and his begins. My pulse pounds in my ears.

This is it, I tell myself. This is for Bianca. This is to end him.

The Don tips the bowl, letting the mingled blood spill into the goblet. His own palm opens under the dagger, dark red joining ours. “By my blood,” he intones, “I bind you to the house of Bellarosa.”

His words are foreign but heavy, rolling in Sicilian like a prayer and a threat. Cristofano repeats them without hesitation. I force my lips to follow, stumbling over the syllables, repeating the last line because my voice falters the first time.

“Again,” the Don says, his eyes sharp on mine.

I repeat it, clearer now, my voice steady even as my hands tremble.

The Don drinks first, the metallic tang of blood staining his mouth. He passes the goblet to Cristofano, who takes a slow sip while watching me with unreadable eyes. Then he offers it to me.

The rim is warm from his mouth. The first taste is wine—rich, bitter—but then the iron tang hits. My stomach twists. I swallow anyway. Swallow my fear. Swallow my disgust. Swallow the voice screaming that this is madness.

The Don lowers the goblet. “It is done.” His gaze lingers on me a moment longer before turning to his son. “Lead her to the Black Book.”

As the nurse wheels him away, his voice echoes in my mind. The Black Book. The thing Marcello wants. The thing that could bring all of this crashing down.

Cristofano squeezes my hand, leaning in just enough for his words to be meant only for me. “You did well.”

I nod, my mouth forming a faint smile I don’t feel. My palm throbs under the cloth binding, but it’s nothing compared to the weight in my chest.

One step closer, I remind myself. One step closer to ending Cristofano Bellarosa.

Cristofano’s hand tightens around mine—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me I’m not in control here.

“Follow me,” he says, voice low, no room for argument.

We walk in silence through a side corridor of the estate, past doors I’ve never seen open. The walls are bare of their usual gilded frames. At the end, a steel door waits, its hinges heavy, its lock thick enough to keep a monster in—or out.

He enters a code, and the lock releases with a heavy clunk.

The door swings open.