Page 7 of Blood Debt
Despite myself, I laugh—wet and broken.
She presses a kiss to my temple. Then she reaches behind her and hands me a small plate.
“Here,” she says. “Take a few cookies upstairs. You’ve earned them.”
I kiss her cheek and head up to my room.
I hold the box in my hand, cookies forgotten on the dresser.
The room is dark except for the lamp on my bedside table. I sit down slowly. My fingers tremble as I undo the ribbon.
The lid creaks open.
On top, carefully folded, is a piece of paper. Beneath it—our old friendship bracelets. Frayed. Faded. Made of black cord and silver beads. We crafted them the week we got our first undercover assignment—just two girls who thought they’d be invincible.
I lift the note with shaking hands.
The handwriting is rushed, excited.
I’m having a baby!
The breath leaves my lungs in one sharp pull. My hand covers my mouth. The page trembles in my grip.
She was pregnant when she left.
She never told me.
Tears spill over before I can stop them. They fall onto the edge of the note, then onto the box, soaking into the fabric-lined base. I try to hold it in—clench my jaw, breathe through my nose, blink it back.
But my body won’t obey.
It breaks.
It breaks all at once.
I curl forward, hands around the box, forehead against my knees, and let the grief take me under.
Chapter 2 – Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate, Melbourne, Australia
The door to my father’s wing groans open on its hinges—thick oak, reinforced. Even sickness doesn’t stop him from demanding bulletproof doors.
A flicker of movement in the corner of the room.
Elena, the nurse, is bent at his side, holding a spoonful of medication to his lips. She’s careful. Her hand trembles slightly. I barely step inside before she straightens like she’s been burned.
“Signor Bellarosa,” she says quickly, bowing her head.
The pill bottle rattles as she gathers it.
“Don’t trip on your way out,” I say, flat.
She scurries, clutching her clipboard like a shield. The door closes softly behind her.
I exhale.
The room smells like old paper and eucalyptus balm. Warm afternoon light pours through the high arched windows, soaking into the walnut floors. A breeze nudges the edge of the curtain. My father lies against a mountain of pillows in his massive four-poster bed, chest rising slow and thin beneath the navy cashmere blanket.
