Page 44 of The Marriage Debt

“I didn’t know.” My fear is starting to show. I hate being scared in front of him. It's worse than it was with Anton because Mateo has seen me vulnerable in ways I never let Anton see me.

“You always need two,” he says again. This time, there’s no space between the words. No breath. Just pressure. “Do you think they care if it’s morning or night? Do you think the enemy gives a fuck what time it is?”

His voice doesn’t rise, but it fills every inch of the room. Lev stirs slightly, a small whimper slipping from his lips before he quiets again. I stroke his back, try to calm him without drawing more attention to the tremor in my fingers. I should be used to this by now but I'm not.

“I’m not going to raise my son in a bunker,” I say quietly.

“You’re not going to raise him at all if you keep pretending this is optional.”

That sentence lands with more impact than the blast outside. My breath hitches, and I feel something in my chest fold in on itself. He isn’t wrong, and that’s what burns most. I press my palm to the bed, anchoring myself there, trying to calm the roar in my head long enough to think. I want Lev out of here—away from here. My mother is right. Marcella is right. Lev isn't safe here.

“I was doing what I thought was right,” I say, not even sure who I’m trying to convince. It was just a school run. This is our home. It's supposed to be safe.

“That’s your problem. You think.”

The room goes still. Not quiet. Still. My shoulders tense, and I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw hard enough to make my teeth ache. That hurt more than it should have. He isn't correcting me. He's being cruel.

I stand, not to challenge him, just to move. Just to keep from feeling like I’ve already lost something I haven’t named yet. Mateo doesn’t give me the chance to pass. He steps into my path, his frame blocking the exit completely.

“You want to go?” he asks, too calm now in that flat, deadened tone that never means anything good. “Fine.” He looks at Lev, asleep in the bed I laid him in, protected behind doors I didn't think we needed locked. “But he stays.”

I stop like I’ve been punched. My stomach drops so fast I feel nauseated. “You can’t mean that.” I'm cold suddenly, hugging myself, shivering.

“He’s not leaving this house.” His eyes are inky and hard like steel.

“You think I'd take him out there after what just happened?” My voice rises before I can stop it, ragged with disbelief. “You think I’m that reckless?”

“I think you’re emotional,” he says, “and emotional people make bad decisions.”

The implication stings. Worse, it feels like he’s right again. My hand grips the edge of the dresser near the bed, anchoring me to something solid. I hate that he’s always a step ahead of me, always making the decisions before I can even think of the question.

I move toward the door, needing to put space between us, but before I can cross the threshold, his hand closes around my wrist. It’s not a violent grip, but it stops me cold.

“You want to run?” he says quietly. “Be my guest. But you don’t take the kid.”

“You don’t get to make that call.” My protest is weak. I know he will get his way.

He releases me slowly, as if to prove he doesn’t have to hold on to keep control. His voice doesn’t change, doesn’t crack. “I already did.”

There’s nothing left to say. If I argue now, it’ll be for pride, not purpose. I take a breath that doesn’t help and step around him. My back stays straight, my eyes dry. The burn behind them will come later.

I make it to the hallway before the trembling in my hands starts again. I press one against the wall and close the door behind me. Inside, Lev sleeps like a child who believes he’s safe.

I’m not sure that belief will hold very much longer.

22

MATEO

Filippo Ricci is bound to the chair with zip ties and wire. He’s sweating through his shirt, even though the room is cold. Blood runs down his forearm, dripping from the broken angle of his wrist. Rafe snapped it clean twenty minutes ago with the flat of a pry bar. It wasn’t for punishment. It was to get him ready.

He didn’t cry out when the bone went. Just a sharp, muffled grunt. But now the panic is setting in. He’s breathing hard, his shoulders hunched, his face pale. Both hands are shaking as he tries to cradle the broken one, though there’s nothing left to protect. The damage is already done.

I lean over the steel table between us. My arms are crossed, pistol resting in my grip. The table is stained, its surface mottled with old brown splatter and fresh smears from earlier hours. Not all of it is his, but more will be soon.

“This is simple,” I say. “You planted the charge. Now tell me who paid you.”

He licks his lips and swallows. His mouth is dry, cracked at the edges. His pupils are too wide. He still thinks if he talks slowly enough, he’ll walk out of here with all his bones intact.

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