Page 8 of Blood Debt
He looks smaller now. Smaller than I ever remember. But his eyes are sharp—black, glinting, familiar.
“Papà.”
His lips tug up at one corner, dry but mischievous.
“Cristofano,” he rasps. “You finally emerge. I thought I’d died and been sent to Hell.”
I walk to his side, drag the armchair closer, and sit. “How do you feel?”
He sighs dramatically. “Like my hands are so light…since they aren’t carrying a grandchild.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out a slow groan.
“Papà...not this again.”
He coughs a little, then grins. “I’m dying, figlio mio. I’m allowed to meddle.”
“You’ve been dying for twelve years,” I mutter.
“Yes. And every year, I tell you to find a woman. And every year, you bring me business reports instead.”
He shifts slightly under the blanket, wincing, but the spark never leaves his gaze.
“I’ve taken the liberty,” he says.
“Of?”
“Arranging you a date.”
I raise both brows. “Papà—”
He waves a frail hand. “Don’t give me that business excuse. I raised you. I know your bullshit tone.”
I lean back in the chair, folding my arms.
“There’s a war coming,” I say quietly. “I don’t have time to—”
He cuts me off with a glare so sharp it slices through my logic.
“Tomorrow, you will clean up,” he says. “Shave that stubble—it’s unsightly. You look like you sleep in alleyways. No wonder women avoid you.”
I chuckle, despite myself.
There it is.
His eyes narrow just enough to deliver the next line with full theatrical timing.
“Your mother—Dio mio—she was the most beautiful woman in all of Lazio. And she fell for me.”
I smile, the ache rising behind it. “Because she didn’t know who you were yet.”
“She knew,” he says with a smug breath. “She saw me walk into a funeral parlor and said, ‘There’s the man I’m going to bury my heart with.’”
I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s morbid.”
“That’s marriage.”
But then, slowly, the laughter fades.
