Chapter 3 - Debt of Blood
The ride through the city was long, silent, and tense. Dante sat in the front passenger seat, eyes fixed on the side mirrors, while Clara remained in the back, her heart beating like a trapped bird. The blacked-out windows made it impossible to tell where they were going, but after thirty minutes of navigating winding turns, the smooth asphalt gave way to gravel.
The sedan rolled through a set of massive wrought-iron gates that closed automatically behind them. A long drive lined with ancient oak trees opened up to reveal a massive stone estate, secluded deep within the wooded hills on the outer rim of the city. High-powered floodlights illuminated the perimeter, where several armed men in tactical gear walked patrol with trained guard dogs.
The car came to a smooth stop under a stone portico. Dante stepped out and opened Clara’s door.
"Inside, please," he said politely.
Clara stepped out, her eyes scanning the armed perimeter. This was not a gang hideout; it was a fortress. She followed Dante through heavy oak doors into a grand foyer featuring marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and a sweeping curved staircase.
Standing at the base of the stairs was Luca Moretti.
He no longer looked like the dying, mud-drenched ghost from the alley. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, dark trousers, and leather shoes. His dark hair was brushed back, framing his sharp features. Yet despite the immaculate appearance, his face was pale, and he leaned slightly against the carved wooden banister to keep his weight off his right side.
His dark eyes locked onto Clara the moment she walked through the door.
"Clara," he said. His voice was low, deep, and raspy, carrying the residual strain of his injury.
"Mr. Moretti," Clara said, standing her ground in the center of the foyer. She crossed her arms, trying to project a confidence she didn't feel. "Your muscle here says I was about to get murdered because I didn't let you bleed out on my floor."
Luca looked at Dante, who gave a brief, respectful nod before stepping back toward the entrance, leaving the two of them alone in the vast hall.
"Dante speaks the truth," Luca said slowly, taking a single step toward her. He winced slightly, a tiny flinch that only a trained nurse would catch. "Victor Vane is thorough. He lost six men in the ambush last night. He knows I survived, and he knows someone patched me up before I reached my safehouse. His scouts were watching your building."
"Then let me go to the police," Clara demanded. "I can go into protective custody."
Luca let out a cold, soft chuckle. "The police department in this city has three captains on Vane’s payroll and two on mine. The moment you step into a precinct, Vane will know your room number before you finish filling out the paperwork. You wouldn't survive the night."
Clara took a deep breath, trying to process the nightmare unfolding around her. "So what am I supposed to do? Stay locked up in your mansion forever?"
"You stay here until I eliminate Vane," Luca said simply. "It is the only way to ensure your safety."
"I have a job, Luca! I have patients at St. Jude’s who rely on me. I have rent to pay!"
"Your shift at St. Jude’s has been covered," Luca replied smoothly. "A leave of absence was submitted on your behalf an hour ago, citing a family emergency. As for your rent, the building has been purchased by one of my holding companies. You no longer owe a dime."
Clara felt a flare of white-hot anger burn through her fear. She marched right up to him, stopping just inches from his chest. "You think you can just buy my life? You think because you have money and guns you get to dictate where I sleep and where I work?"
Luca didn't back down. He leaned down slightly, his dark eyes burning into hers. "I am keeping you alive, Clara. That is the agreement. You gave me my life last night. I am returning the favor."
Suddenly, Luca gasped, a sharp intake of breath. He staggered slightly, his right hand shooting to his lower ribs. A faint bloom of red began to seep through the crisp white fabric of his shirt.
Clara’s anger instantly dissolved, replaced by pure professional instinct. She grabbed his arm, supporting his weight.
"You idiot," she snapped, her tone shifting seamlessly from outraged victim to stern medical professional. "You're tearing your stitches! Where is your medical kit?"
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Luca looked down at her hand on his arm, a flicker of surprise passing through his dark eyes before he masked it. "Upstairs. Second door on the left."
"Move," Clara ordered, slinging his arm around her shoulder just as she had done in the alley. "And don't you dare bleed on my watch again."
