Page 26 of Blood Debt
“I’m not marrying her,” I say flatly, arms crossed.
He pops a grape in his mouth and chews. Loudly.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he says. “It’s not an execution. It’s a wedding.”
“It’s not anything. We went on one date.”
“Yes, and you were rude. You made Matteo pretend to be your boyfriend.”
“I was avoiding a political arrangement.”
“You were being a child.”
I exhale through my nose and walk to the edge of the balcony, looking out over the vineyards. The sun’s lower now—late afternoon—burning the hills in warm bronze.
“I have business to handle,” I say. “A dock manifest in Hobson’s Bay flagged three containers—”
He raises a finger. “No excuses.”
“I’m serious—”
He claps twice.
The nurse appears almost instantly from the hallway door, syringe in hand.
My father smiles at me. “You’re exhausting, figlio mio. I need a nap.”
“You’re sedating yourself to escape this conversation?”
“To escape you,” he says cheerfully, rolling up the sleeve of his robe. “Be nice to her. And give me grandchildren. Strong ones.”
I rub a hand over my face as the nurse injects the sedative, and he reclines with a satisfied sigh.
“She’s very pretty,” he mumbles, already drifting. “And you’re impossible.”
I turn on my heel and walk off before he starts dreaming out loud.
His voice follows me anyway, faint but audible. “Sii gentile, stupido.... Be nice!”
I round the corner toward the west wing just in time to almost collide with her.
She’s standing barefoot near the kitchen archway in a thin, tracing nightdress—champagne silk that clings too easily to skin, with a satin ribbon tied lazily around her waist. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a few strands loose and curling near hercollarbone. She’s holding a mug of coffee and smiling like she’s lived here for years.
“You’re up early,” she says, her tone too casual. “Or is this you staying up late, brooding on the balcony?”
I step back.
She closes the distance with no hesitation and presses a kiss to my chin. Her perfume is heady and floral.
I pull away. “Go get dressed.”
She sips her coffee. “No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She raises her cup in a mock toast. “Alessandra Morelli. Just in case you didn’t catch it the first time.”
She’s right—I didn’t. I wasn’t listening.
