Mafia Heir’s Broken Vows (Rosewood Hall Broken Vows)

6. Alessandro

ALESSANDRO

T he heavy steel door of her family's temporary safe house clicks shut behind us, sealing us inside. The place feels like a tomb—quiet, cold, and stale. Dust hangs in the air and the faint scent of old wood seeps into my lungs. No one's been here in a while. The walls are bare, the floorboards groan under every step, and the emptiness presses down like a weight.

Serafina brushes past me, her heels clicking against the worn hardwood. She doesn't look at me, doesn't say a word. It's deliberate. She wants distance—a barrier I have every intention of tearing down.

Her defiant silence grates on my nerves. It's a protest. She doesn't want to be here—with me.

"My father and I stayed in this shithole before," she mutters, breaking the silence. Her voice is flat, but I catch the edge of frustration. "We better not be here for long. It's easy to find this place."

I ignore her tone, scanning the room with a practiced eye. Years of living in the shadows have sharpened my instincts. Two exits—one front, one back. The locks are weak, the windows fragile. The place is cluttered—stacks of unopened mail, a half- folded blanket on the couch, and the faint imprint of a life packed up in a hurry. A safe house, but not a good one.

Then I see it.

On the side table, half-buried under scattered keys and old receipts, a collection of picture frames catches my eye. My steps slow, the tension in my shoulders tightening. Something about the placement feels… intentional. Like someone left them there as a reminder.

One photo stops me cold.

A little boy. No older than three. Dark, unruly hair. High cheekbones. And eyes that look too damn much like mine.

My chest tightens, and the air in the room is suddenly too thin. I lift the frame, the glass cold against my fingers. My gaze catches on the back of the photo—scrawled in the handwriting I recognize as her father's: Leo’s third birthday.

The name hits me like a bullet. My grip on the frame tightens as the cold knot in my stomach turns into a raging fire.

"Serafina," I call out, my voice low, even. Too even.

She doesn't answer, but I hear her footsteps approaching. I don't turn. My gaze remains locked on the photo as I ask, "Who is this?"

Her silence is deafening, and when she finally speaks, her voice is clipped. "That's none of your business."

"Oh, but it is now." I step forward, holding the frame up between us. The boy's smile mocks me. "Tell me, Serafina. Who. Is. He?"

Her shoulders pull back, and she stands still. "He's my son."

The storm inside me churns, but I don't push.

Not yet. Not until I'm certain.

"Your son," I echo, voice as sharp as a knife. The words burn on my tongue. "And where is his father?"

She turns slowly, eyes cold and guarded. "Gone."

Gone. One word. That's all she gives me. It hurts more than it should. I study the photo again, every detail imprinted into my mind. The resemblance is undeniable—the sharp jawline, the dark hair, the eyes that could be mine. Every part of me screams the truth, but she won't say it.

"You're lying."

Her expression hardens. "No, I'm protecting him." She turns my words against me.

"From what?" I snap, the anger bubbling to the surface. "From me?"

Her silence is answer enough.

"You think I would hurt him?" He's a child.

"I think you'd drag him into the same world that destroyed you!"

Her voice cracks, raw and full of venom. But behind it, there's fear. Not for herself—for her son.

I take a step forward, closing the distance between us.

"You kept him from me. Why? "

Her jaw clenches. "Because this—this life of yours—it ruins everything it touches. And because you were gone, you left, and the rest of us kept living. I grew up, had a kid, started a business. Things didn't stop when you left us."

I grip the photo tighter, the glass breaking beneath my fingers.

"He deserves to know who his father is." I deserved to know I had a son.

Her eyes blaze. "And what good would that do him? You think telling him his father is a killer will make him safer?" She pauses, "He's better off without a father, men like his father ruin lives."

The accusation is painful to hear, but I can't argue. Because she's right.

I take another step, now inches away from her.

"Tell me the truth, Serafina. Is he mine?"

Her lips press into a thin line, eyes locked on mine. The tension in the room ramps up, her fucking defiant silence angers me more than anything she could say.

"Answer me!"

She flinches, barely, but she lifts her chin in defiance. "No. He's not yours, you left, and I moved on. Are you happy now?"

A lie. I see it in the flicker of her eyes, the way her hands tremble at her sides. She's always been a terrible liar.

My grip tightens on the photo frame, and the glass starts to fall from the frame. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"The hell you aren't." I throw the photo back onto the table with a sharp thud. "That boy has my eyes."

Her breathing quickens, but she holds her ground. The silent stare between us says more than words ever could.

"You should have told me," I growl.

Her arms cross tightly over her chest, like armor. "If he was yours? What would you have done, Alessandro? Dragged us both into your family's war? He's not yours."

My fists clench at my sides. "I would have protected him. Protected you both."

Her bitter laugh echoes in the still room. "Like you protected me before? Like you protected my brother? We don't need protection, certainly not from you."

I turn away, pacing the small room, my thoughts a hurricane of anger. Marco. The attacks. And now this.

"You should have told me," I repeat, quieter this time.

"And what would that have changed?" she fires back. "Would you have run back into my life like a hero? Brought your enemies to our doorstep? He's not yours, he is mine."

"I would have fought for you!" The words burst out before I can stop them.

Her silence is louder than any scream.

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to rein in the chaos inside me. I failed her once. I won't do it again. I'm trying not to lose control and fly off the handle.

"I'm not leaving until I get actual answers," I say, voice like steel.

Her eyes narrow. "Then you'll be waiting a long time. Besides, I will leave if you don't. I don't want to be here, anyway." She stands there and waits for a response.

"I'll wait." I growl, "I have nothing else to do."

"Fuck you, Alessandro." She closes herself in the only bedroom, leaving me alone looking at the picture of a boy who could be me. I rummage through the cabinets and find a bottle of whiskey, it's probably turned to turpentine by now, but I need a drink too badly to care.

I drink straight from the bottle; the glasses are all dusty.