Page 63 of The Marriage Debt

I lower my gun. My knees nearly buckle from the rush of adrenaline and something deeper—something like grief, something like rage. I cross the room and kneel beside him, careful not to touch him too fast. His little body recoils at first. But then he sees me.

“Mateo?” His voice is so soft I almost miss it.

“Yeah, kid. I’ve got you now.”

He lets go of his legs and throws his arms around my neck so fast, I have to brace myself. His chest shakes against mine, tiny sobs racking through him. I hold him tighter than I should. I whisper whatever comes to mind. It doesn’t matter what I say, only that he hears it. That he knows I came.

Rafe appears at the top of the stairs. “Clear?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, my voice hoarse. “We’ve got him.”

He nods once and disappears again.

I don’t move for a long time. Lev clings to me like if he lets go, it’ll happen all over again. Maybe he’s right.

I don’t let go either.

33

LILA

Everything changes fast after the rescue. It’s like the world realigns itself overnight. News spreads through the city. Nobody says it out loud, but everybody hears it. If you go after Lila Varo or her son, you don’t get a second chance. Five men connected to the Bianchis turn up dead within seventy-two hours. No official claims. No threats. Just silence where there used to be noise. The message is clear.

The Varo family folds. I don’t even have to ask. Two days after the rescue, Marcella shows up at the Rossi estate wearing a navy wool coat and an expression I can’t read. She brings documents—the official withdrawal of any and all custody claims over Lev. She doesn’t ask to come in. We speak in the foyer, under the watchful eyes of men who wouldn’t have even acknowledged her a month ago.

“Serafina sends her regrets,” she says, handing me the folder.

I stare at it, then at her. "That's it?" I ask.

Marcella gives a tight nod. "The papers are clean."

"She could’ve sent them herself."

"You know she wouldn’t."

I look down at the folder again, then back at her. "I’ll sign nothing until my lawyer reviews it."

"Understood," she says, her voice flat.

I don’t thank her. She doesn’t apologize.

She nods once and leaves without another word. Her heels click across the marble and echo behind her like punctuation.

Anton’s creditors vanish next, the weight of his legacy, his choices, gone like someone burned the records and buried the debt collectors in the same grave. Whether the debts were paid or just… erased, no one tells me. I don’t ask. The estate is quiet now. It feels like the calm after a forest fire—still standing, but nothing untouched.

Lev doesn’t leave Mateo’s side. He trails him from room to room, his tiny hand sometimes catching the edge of Mateo’s jacket, like he’s afraid the man might disappear if he stops touching him. He wants to eat beside him, sit beside him, sleep beside him. Mateo lets him.

They don’t talk about it. They just… exist together, no ceremony, no explanation. And strangely, it works.

I watch them sometimes, from the second floor landing, when they’re in the den. Mateo reads reports. Lev draws in a notebook with the same four crayons he won’t let anyone replace. Every so often, Mateo glances down at whatever the boy’s scribbling. He doesn’t speak, just gives a small nod, and Lev beams like it’s the highest praise.

There’s a new stillness in Mateo now. Not softness—he’s never soft. But something has shifted, a new kind of gravity in the way he moves. Like he’s carrying something he’ll never set down.

That night, I find him in the office. The lamps are low like normal—I think Mateo is a vampire with as little light as he lets in. Mateo sits behind his desk, reading through security updates with the kind of focus most people fake. Lev is curled on the leather couch, fast asleep, one of Mateo’s jackets tucked around him like a blanket. His fingers are wrapped around the fabric like he can still feel Mateo through it.

I sit down across from him without speaking. He doesn’t look up at me. It's like he can sense my thoughts and emotions without saying a word.

“He needs you,” I say. “Not just now. Long-term.”

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