Page 56 of The Marriage Debt

He looks down like it’s news. “It’ll hold.”

“You’re insane.”

He finally meets my eyes. “You just figured that out?”

I wet a towel and hand it to him without speaking. He presses it to the wound with a short breath through his nose. Nothing dramatic. He just endures it.

“Lev doesn’t know you’re hurt,” I say. “Don’t let him see it.”

“I won’t," he grunts quietly, avoiding eye contact. It's the first time I've ever seen him be anything other than a beast. He's letting me see him vulnerable. I'm not sure what to think of that.

There’s nothing else to say that can be said within earshot of my son, so I grab the cup from the sink and fill it with water. Then I walk back into the bedroom and settle onto the bed beside Lev. He reaches for the cup without opening his eyes and sips from it. When he's done drinking, I curl around him, stroking his hair until his breathing deepens and evens out. He’s asleep within minutes, his small hand resting against my side, legs tucked in close.

Mateo steps into the room and doesn’t say a word. He’s still shirtless, but he moves quietly, carefully, and lies down on the other side of Lev. The boy shifts slightly, then presses into him like gravity pulls him there. As much as I want to tear him away from this family and run somewhere safe, I see how much Lev loves Mateo. It's like he worships the man.

Mateo rests one hand on Lev’s back, just above the blanket in a protective posture, and I sigh softly as I watch them. I lie still, listening to the silence stretch. Mateo stares at the ceiling. His face doesn’t move. His eyes don’t blink. I see the pain etched on his face, and he's too much of an egomaniac to ask for help.

Eventually, I slip out of bed, muttering, "I'll be back."

The first aid kit is still in the bathroom, but I don’t go there. I make my way down the stairs to look for pain medicine, knowing Mateo won’t ask for it himself. The gauze was already bleeding through when I left the room, and no matter how calm he looks, he’s hurting. The bathroom upstairs had nothing useful. I figure if he keeps anything stronger, it’ll be here.

Mateo’s office is dim, lit only by the soft red hum of the baseboard lights. I move straight to the desk, pulling open the top drawer. I find spare rounds, a pen, and a few folded receipts. The second drawer holds a lighter, a spare phone, and an old notebook. Still nothing useful.

I crouch to check the bottom drawer and notice it’s not fully closed. The edge is slightly warped, like it was rattled loose during the shooting. I pull it open slowly.

There’s only one folder inside.

It’s thin, deliberately placed, nothing else around it. That alone makes me pause. I glance at the doorway, wondering what Mateo will think if he knows I've been in his office. But I don’t stop snooping now. When I slide it free, I recognize what’s on top before I fully process it.

A photo.

Of me.

I’m outside a café, mid-step, holding a paper cup. And I'm young. This was early on, before I married Anton. My face is angled just enough for the camera to catch it clearly. I don’t remember the moment, which means I didn’t know it was taken. The grain of the image and the slight blur at the edge make it obvious—surveillance.

Clipped behind the photo is a note. I unfold it, already dreading what I’ll see. A name is printed at the top in clear handwriting.Lila Varo.

There’s no context, no date, no message. Just my name. A target? Was someone hired to kill me?

I press the photo flat against my thigh for a second, then slide both it and the paper into the waistband of my shorts. I close the drawer with slow, steady pressure, making sure it latches, and rise slowly. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my hands shake.

I came looking for something to ease the pain. Something to help a man who has been helping me. Because I care about him. But that photo means something and I don't know what.

Now I have more questions than answers and no excuse to ask any of them.

28

MATEO

Rafe and Alessio are already waiting when I step out the back door of the club. The music presses faintly against the brick wall behind us—deep bass, laughter, the sound of glasses clinking together. All of it feels miles away. Out here, past the kitchen exit and the security cameras' blind spot, there’s nothing but shadows and silence. This spot’s been used for years when something needs to stay off the record. No one stumbles back here by accident.

We don’t speak right away. Alessio hands me the folder without a word, and I take my time flipping through it.

The wire route matches what I expected. A Palermo-based import company—shell paperwork, barely aged, built to conceal a single payment. It’s a single transfer that appears clean at first glance, but the ledger trails off into a Rossi-cleared vendor account that hasn’t been touched since Anton was alive. It doesn’t even take a name to finish the math.

“Lorenzo Cappa,” I say.

Rafe nods once. “Everything points back to him. Quiet funding, our own internal paths, all of it rerouted from that dummy company.” He taps the paper as he speaks, and I scowl at the numbers again.

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