Page 30 of The Marriage Debt

She grins and opens the case. “The lemon glaze?”

I nod and lean on the counter. “Six, if you have them.”

“We have ten. I’ll give you eight. He always eats three before dinner, anyway.”

I smile, even though my chest is tight. The light outside is too bright for how I feel. There’s a slight buzz in the air that I can’t pin down. Static or nerves or something in between.

As she starts to box the cookies, my phone rings. The number flashing across the screen is unfamiliar, a Roman prefix I don’t recognize. It’s the kind of call I’ve been waiting for and dreading at the same time. I glance up at the girl behind the counter and lift a hand slightly.

“Do you mind if I take this here?”

She waves it off with a smile and keeps folding the tissue over the pastries. I turn slightly away and answer, keeping my voice low.

“This is Lila.”

There’s a short pause, just long enough to tighten something in my chest, and then a woman responds on the other end.

“Ms. Varo, my name is Alessandra Farini. I’m calling from the Rome family court clerk’s office regarding your pending case.”

My grip shifts slightly on the phone. I nod before remembering she can’t see me.

“All right.”

“The judge has reviewed the emergency petition submitted by Serafina Varo and her counsel. The motion for annulment has been denied. Your marriage remains legally recognized and binding.”

The words land with dull finality. She continues speaking, something about a written notice and procedural closure, but I barely register it. I’m still standing in a pastry shop that smells like candied lemon and butter, listening to a stranger tell me that my entire life is now settled by a line in a case file.

“Thank you,” I say, because it’s the only thing that makes sense to say aloud, even though I don’t feel grateful.

She tells me the official documents will arrive within forty-eight hours and then hangs up without fanfare. I lower the phone, breathing once before tucking it back into my coat pocket.

The girl finishes tying the box and sets it gently on the counter. She doesn’t ask about the call. She just offers a polite smile as I hand her the cash and thank her. The box is still warm beneath my fingers.

As I leave the shop and step onto the sunlit street, I pull out my phone again and open a message thread. Mateo is big on my informing him, so I send him a message.

Lila 10:14 AM: It’s done. Her petition was denied.

I stare at the screen longer than I should. Nothing comes back, not even dots saying he's typing. The phone stays heavy in my palm as I lower it, and I keep walking, unsure whether the tightness in my chest is relief or something sharper.

The drive back takes longer than usual. The car hits traffic near the outer ring, stuck behind a delivery truck inching toward the exit. The cookies cool in the box on the seat beside me and I don’t check my phone—I already know there’s no reply.

The car starts slowing before we reach the main drive. I shift forward in my seat, peering through the windshield, already sensing something wrong in the posture of the guards near the house.

We round the curve, and then I see them.

Three men on the lawn. Two are on their knees, hands cuffed behind their backs, faces bloodied and bowed like they can’t lift their heads anymore. One of them has a swollen cheekbone so pronounced it’s split open, the skin peeled back like raw fruit. His nose is crooked, maybe broken twice, and what’s left of his shirt is soaked through the front with sweat and something darker. The second one is shaking, rocking slightly, one eye swollen shut and the other fixed on the ground like he’s trying to disappear into it.

The third man is on his side, not kneeling at all. He’s been restrained at the wrists and ankles, but he’s fallen or been dropped and now lies face down in the grass with both hands tied behind him. Blood pools under his face, dripping slowly from his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s breathing.

The driver pulls to a stop, and without saying a word, I step out and the smell hits immediately—sweat, blood, and bile baked into the air under the Roman sun. One of the guards standing near them is holding a set of pliers. There’s something dark caught in the teeth of it, and I don’t look closely enough to identify it.

Rafe is standing over them, arms crossed, shirt soaked under the arms. His lip is split, and his right hand is wrapped in gauze that wasn’t there this morning. I count three sidearms on the men surrounding them, and at least one suppressed weapon resting near the front steps.

Rage swells in my chest. I take the box of pastries in hand, tucked under my arm, and move toward the house. My heels click on the path but no one says a word to me. This is disgusting.

The man lying on his side looks up just long enough for me to see the line of bruises down his neck—thin, even marks like the edge of a metal rod struck the same spot over and over again. His bottom lip is torn. His kneecaps are exposed through his pants, the fabric shredded. The skin around them is purple, almost black.

Rafe doesn’t glance at me. He’s focused on the one that hasn’t made a sound, the man still kneeling upright. His ribs are heaving too fast. Someone’s put a rag in his mouth, but it’s already red through the center.

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