Page 32 of The Marriage Debt

Rafe doesn’t nod or ask questions. He’s already walking away, ready to carry out my orders.

The warehouse is an old textile depot we converted years ago. We’ve used it enough that the guards at the industrial lot don’t blink when we pass. It’s buried deep behind the rail line—no street access, no foot traffic, no overhead cameras. The building smells like old solvent and the walls sweat when the humidity climbs too high. The kind of place that absorbs pain.

The man they pulled is already secured by the time I get there. His arms are bound behind the steel chair, chest bare, sweat clinging to bruises that haven’t had time to settle. Blood runs from his nose down to his collarbone. One eye is swelling, the color deepening toward purple. His breathing is fast but steady, not panicked—yet. He’s been softened. Rafe did just enough damage to break down the edge of his resistance without leaving permanent marks. He knows how to pace it.

I pull up a second chair and sit directly across from him with my arms rested over the back rest. He lifts his head when he hears the legs scrape across the floor. He blinks through the blood.

“You called Lila's number,” I say. My voice doesn’t rise or drop in inflection. I maintain a steady tone to communicate that I'm the one who's in charge.

He doesn’t answer. He hesitates like he’s going to lie, but not fast enough to make it stick. I reach forward, hook the front of his chair, and kick it backward. The metal tips and hits the concrete. His head bounces on the floor with a hollow thud and there’s a sharp crack as something—his shoulder or the chair—breaks. Rafe grabs him by the hair and jerks him upright. The man groans, a wet sound caught between his throat and his teeth.

I don’t move.

“You called the number,” I repeat.

His voice comes out thin. “It was passed down. I didn’t—” He stops himself. “I didn’t pull it myself. It came through the drop. I was told to use it once.”

“Who gave the order?”

His eyes flick toward Rafe and then back to me. “Tommaso. From Naples. I didn’t talk to him, but I saw him. He was the one at the site. He checked the van, handed off the money, confirmed the job.”

“What job?”

“We were told to track… the woman… the kid… Where they went, how long they stayed, who they met. No contact, just record and report.” His breathing is labored, words coming between hard breaths.

“For how long?”

“Until they called back. We were supposed to wait. Said we’d know when to move.”

He’s speaking faster now, too fast, like if he keeps going I won’t hit him again. His skin is clammy, slick with the first edge of real panic. He’s not hardened enough to be useful beyond this sort of bullshit. Bianchi sent weak men in to do his dirty work.

“Where are the other two?” I ask.

“Storage unit in Garbatella—brown door, code’s on the dash of the van. They were told to sit tight until someone gave the signal. That’s all I know. I swear to God, that’s all.”

Rafe turns away and starts making the call. I stay where I am. The man breathes heavily through his nose, blood bubbling at one nostril. His eyes don’t leave mine. He’s trying to figure out if this is where he dies. I don’t tell him as much, but it is definitely where he dies.

I lean forward just enough that he can smell the heat off my skin and the stink on my breath.

“If you ever look at my son again—if you so much as look in his direction—I’ll make sure it takes you three days to die.”

He doesn’t blink. He just nods once, too fast.

I rise and walk out.

Outside, Rafe meets me by the car. His sleeves are rolled back down. His hands are clean. He already knows what I’m going to say. He lights the cigarette with a flick of his wrist, shielding the flame with his palm as the wind cuts across the lot. He inhales once, then again, eyes on the warehouse door like the body inside might come walking out. Blood spatters across his sleeve have dried around the elbow. He hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care.

“Burn everything,” I say. “Van, chair, SIMs. I want it all gone before sunrise.”

He nods, smoke leaking from his nose as he drags another hit. His eyes don’t shift. He’s still watching the door, staring at it like a dog waiting for his master to throw him the bone. Rafe is good like that. I know I can count on him to devour every last shred of evidence.

“No teeth. No ID. I want him gone.”

“Copy that,” he says, cigarette between his teeth.

I leave him there in the dark, still smoking, the glow of the cherry bright against the side of his face. He’ll stay until the work is done and report to me in the morning. For now, I have some changes to make. If the local policia have gotten involved by flagging my number, it means things are heating up. It means I have to be more careful.

The driver doesn’t speak when I get in. He pulls away, and we take the long route back to the estate. The roads are empty—just construction signage and long patches of dark. I roll the window down halfway. Cold air stings my jaw, keeps my head sharp. I don't get any calls or messages, but the knowledge of what we pulled out of that man’s mouth echoes between my ribs.

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