Page 6 of Blood Debt
I groan lightly, kissing her temple. “That’s because Mama missed you.”
She giggles, wrapping her arms tighter around my neck. “I missed you, too.”
I walk into the house with her still clinging to me. The hallway smells like sugar and warm butter, with hints of lemon and almond from the polish Nonna uses on the wooden banister. The lights are soft, casting gentle shadows across the photos on the wall.
My mother is in the kitchen, wiping down the counter. She’s still in her apron, hair pinned up, reading glasses perched low on her nose.
“You’re back,” she says without turning. “She’s been wired since dinner.”
Bianca wriggles in my arms. “Mama, you have to taste the cookies! Now.”
I glance at my mother. She lifts a brow, and I shrug with a smile. “I’ve been threatened. I have no choice.”
I set Bianca down, and she sprints to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair dramatically.
My mother places a cookie on a plate and slides it to me. “You’re lucky she saved you one.”
I pick it up, still warm, and take a bite. The chocolate melts instantly.
“Oh. Yummy,” I say around the mouthful, over-exaggerated.
Bianca squeals in delight and claps. “Told you!”
She’s vibrating with joy, bouncing on her toes, proud and sugar-stained. I kiss the top of her head and scoop her back into my arms. “Bedtime, chef.”
“Nooo,” she groans, arms flopping dramatically.
“Yep.”
Upstairs, the hallway is quiet and dim. Her room glows with soft lamplight and pastel shadows. I lay her down gently on the bed and pull the blanket over her. She’s still smiling, eyes sleepy now, lashes fluttering.
Her tiny hand reaches for mine.
“Mama…don’t be sad, okay?” she whispers, voice slurred by sleep. “I love you.”
My throat tightens. I press a kiss to her forehead.
“I love you more,” I whisper.
Her breathing evens out slowly, her fingers still curled around mine.
I wait until she’s fully asleep before slipping out.
****
Downstairs, the house is quiet again.
The kitchen is spotless. My mother stands by the sink, wiping her hands on a towel that doesn’t need wiping. She turns when I enter, and she sees it before I speak.
My face cracks. I try to hold it—God, I try—but the tears start without warning, hot and sudden, blurring the lights, the tiles, her.
She moves toward me and folds me into a hug.
I collapse into her chest, the wooden box still pressed between us. My shoulders shake. I can’t stop them. She doesn’t say anything—just strokes my back, fingers gentle, rhythmic.
“Thank you,” I murmur hoarsely.
She chuckles softly into my hair. “Oh, don’t thank me. You pay well for this.”
