Page 57 of The Marriage Debt

Alessio leans against the wall, arms crossed. “We knew he wanted to make a move. Didn’t think he had the balls to hit the estate.”

I pass the folder back without looking at the last page again. “Let's finish this,” I say. “No warning. It has to be public.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I suck in a deep breath. It's almost over.

Rafe doesn't flinch. "You want everyone to see it?" He sounds like he doesn't believe me, and maybe it's the wrong choice, but it's what I'm going with.

"Exactly," I say as I shift my stance, adjusting the watch on my wrist out of habit. "It's a statement, gentlemen. The Bianchis will know this war is over when Cappa is down. They won't come back."

Alessio straightens. “Where?”

“Somewhere crowded. Somewhere he's comfortable. Make it look like you found him at home.” They don’t need more instruction than that. We’ve all played this game long enough to know what a message kill looks like.

Lorenzo funded the estate hit. He used our systems, our people. He made the choice to bring it inside the walls. That’s not politics. That’s personal. Which means there’s no protocol anymore—just punishment. I should feel satisfaction giving the order. But I don’t.

All I can think about is the desk drawer in my office.

When I left the estate this morning, I knew something was off before I even stepped behind the desk. The drawer was open a centimeter too far, like it had been shut in a hurry. The folder I wasn’t supposed to keep—the one with the surveillance photo of her outside that café, the note clipped behind it with her name—was gone.

Lila didn’t mention it. Didn’t confront me. Didn’t ask a single question. That silence is worse than yelling. I’ve seen her angry. I’ve seen her scared. I’ve seen her cut through a room with nothing but her voice. But I don’t know what she looks like when she's undecided how she feels.

I haven’t asked. Because I already know.

She saw what was in that drawer. She knows I watched her. She knows her name was given to me, that I was charged with dispensing her. That kind of detail doesn’t leave room for explanations.

Rafe checks his phone and glances up. “You want us to move tonight?”

“Move now,” I say.

He nods and disappears into the dark. Alessio follows, already on the phone. I don’t watch them go. I just stay where I am, the echo of the bass still faint behind me. But my head’s back in that room, staring at the open drawer, wondering what part of her I just lost forever.

Back at the house, the drive barely registers. Giorgio drives, and I'm glad. My mind’s still half in that alley, half in my office, and nowhere near the present. The engine hums. The guard at the gate waves us through, and the car rolls to a stop in front of the front door.

When I walk through the doors, Lev is standing in the foyer waiting for me with no shoes on, pajama shirt slipping off one shoulder. He looks up at me with wide eyes and holds something out with both hands. "I made this."

It’s a drawing. Crayon on printer paper, folded twice down the center. I take it without speaking and unfold it slowly. Three figures—me, Lila, and Lev—are drawn with blocky arms and lopsided heads. We’re all holding hands. I’m the tallest. Lila has yellow hair. Lev’s in the middle, smiling. We all are. It's the image of a perfect, happy family, something his brain concocted that may never be a thing. It's touching.

I fold it again, careful not to crease the figures, and slide it into my pocket. “You made this?” I ask. He nods once and smiles. “It’s good," I tell him.

He leans in for a second, not quite a hug, more of a press against my side, then backs away and walks toward the kitchen where Rosa calls him softly. I wait until he’s around the corner before I head upstairs.

The bedroom looks normal at first glance. The bed is made. The windows are cracked. But something’s off. It takes a second to register what it is.

Her earrings are gone from the dish by the sink. The sweater she always leaves draped over the chair is missing. Her hairbrush isn’t on the counter.

I step into the closet.

Nothing looks exceptionally out of place except a pair of shoes that was there when I dressed this morning and a black dress. That gets the tension coiling low in my belly.

I check the bathroom. The charger by the sink is still plugged in, but her phone’s not there, and I pull out my own and dial. No ring—straight to voicemail.

I try again and the same thing happens.

She turned it off.

For a second, I just stand there in the doorway, phone still in my hand, like maybe she’ll come back in and tell me I’m being ridiculous. But she won’t. She saw that file. She saw the surveillance photo, the note with her name on it. She walked out and didn’t even bother slamming a door.

I head downstairs and cut through the hallway to the surveillance room. Rafe’s inside, preparing weapons with one of the night guys. He looks up when I walk in. “Something on your mind?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Drop that.”

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