Page 29 of The Marriage Debt

At least, what’s left of it.

It’s not the full copy. Several sections have been redacted, blacked out with thick blocks of ink. Financial designations, estate claims, asset transfers—completely blank. But the name “Lila Varo” appears three times in the first two paragraphs, and each one is underlined in red.

I slide the page out and hold it to the light. Someone’s annotated the margins with dates. It's handwritten, frantic, probably done in the dark. There’s a second name in the notes—“Giulio Fontana”—one of the Bianchi associates tied to the Naples account. His name wasn’t in Anton’s inner circle, which means he’s working from the outside in.

Rafe looks at me. “They’re not after her for what she knows.”

“No,” I say, folding the page back into the sleeve. “They’re after her for what she’s worth.”

“They want her alive.” My mind races. Bianchi knows Lila's family has money. They'll take her or Lev and demand a ransom, and even if Serafina pays, they won't let either of them live to see the light of day again. It's doubtful Serafina would ever pay a ransom on Lila, but Lev would have her emptying her bank accounts.

“For now.” Rafe's eyes are cold as he looks up at me.

I don’t like what that means. They don’t want to destroy her. They want to use her.

Rafe starts to speak again, but I stop him. I strike a match and light the first photo. It curls at the edges, blackening fast. I drop it into the metal bin near the shelves. One by one, I follow with the rest. Lila at the market. Lev at the school. Me at the courthouse. Everything burns until the ash sticks to the bottom like sludge. I drop the will copy last and watch it blister.

“Double security at the house,” I say. “All hours. No changes to rotation, but stagger the vehicles and swap the surveillance path every third pass.”

“Same crew?” Rafe asks.

“No,” I answer. “Only the ones you’d trust with your own family. No one new.”

We leave the house exactly as we found it. The drive back home is long and silent. I check my phone twice, but there’s nothing that can’t wait. Alessio will handle the Naples audit. Dario will keep pushing the internal compliance. No one needs me until morning. What I need now is confirmation of what’s coming.

And I already have it.

By the time we reach the estate, the lights are low and the air is still. I don’t stop in the study or the kitchen. I don’t pour a drink or strip off the weight of the day. I walk up the stairs and push the door to Lev's bedroom open.

He's curled in the center of his bed, face down in the blankets, arms thrown out to either side like he passed out mid-sentence. The covers are bunched at the foot. His breathing is steady, slow, undisturbed. There's a coloring book and one black marker on his pillow. I walk in and pick it up, fold the book shut, and set it on the nightstand next to the marker and the glass of water Lila must've left for him.

He's so small, much smaller than I remember ever being or ever seeing Anton. I pause and watch him breathe a few times, smooth his strands of dark hair that stick up, then cover him with his blanket and back out of the room. My heart is growing attached to his presence, and I find it comforting to come home and check on him. I don’t think I ever expected to feel this way, and now that the stakes have been raised, I feel even more strongly that what I'm doing is the correct thing. I have to protect him.

When I walk into my bedroom, the bathroom door is half open. A dim glow spills across the hardwood. Lila's in my bed.

She doesn’t sit up or turn her head when I enter. She doesn’t speak or ask where I’ve been. She lies still, arms folded under her pillow, one leg tucked beneath the other. Her eyes are open.

Without speaking, I unbutton my cuffs, loosen my belt, and slide into the bed behind her. The sheets are cool. She’s warmer than I expect.

My hand finds her hip. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t move closer either. When I shift, she stiffens, holding herself rigid like she’s waiting for something to hurt. I rest my hand flat on her waist and leave it there.

It takes time, but her body softens in increments. The tension in her shoulders unwinds just enough that I feel the breath she’s been holding escape through her nose. She presses her back to my chest, slowly and cautiously, like testing water. I stay still.

We don’t speak. We don’t move. But we don’t separate.

Not once. Not until morning.

15

LILA

The pastry shop is small, tucked between a butcher and a wine bar on a narrow street just off Campo de' Fiori. You wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking. The awning is faded, striped red and cream, and the windows fog in the corners from the ovens running non-stop since before sunrise. It smells like almond flour and burnt sugar, like honeyed nuts and powdered citrus peel. Lev loves it here.

It's warm enough that I take my coat off when I step inside. There’s a radio playing softly in the back, something old and romantic in Italian. The girl at the counter waves as she sees me, brushing flour from her wrists with the back of her hand.

“You’re early today,” she says, reaching for the waxed paper.

“I had errands nearby,” I reply. “And I promised Lev cookies if he finished all his reading.”

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