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.
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.
His hand drifts toward mine on the armrest. He doesn’t touch it—he never does—but it hovers close enough that I can feel the warmth of it.
“The Blue Moon is coming,” he says.
I stiffen.
He watches me. The humor has gone from his face now, replaced with quiet intensity. The air feels heavier, like it’s folded itself around us.
“I want to see you sealed before I go,” he says. “Bound in the rite. You know what it means.”
I nod once, slowly.
Of course I do.
It’s more than ceremony. It’s legacy. Ancestral magic. Old Sicilian bloodlines. The Blue Moon only comes once every ten years, and when it does, the Rite of Binding can be performed. Two people. One pact. A blood-seal. No betrayal, no broken vows. Your fate is tied to theirs—permanently.
“You ask a lot,” I say quietly.
He smiles, softer this time. “I gave you everything. Now I ask for one thing.”
I don’t answer.
He’s already drifting off, eyes heavy-lidded. I rise and tuck the blanket higher over his shoulders, adjusting the pillow beneath his head. His breathing evens out.
“Fine, fine,” I murmur. “You old man. I’ll go on the damn date.”
His lips twitch as he slips into sleep.
Outside the room, Matteo is waiting in the hallway—my second-in-command, sharp-eyed, leaning casually against the wall with a tablet under one arm.
“How the hell did he arrange a date?” I ask.
Matteo smirks. “He insisted on keeping a private phone. I told him not to.”
“And?”
“And he’s been on dating apps.”
I stare at him. “You let him?”
Matteo shrugs.
I drag a hand over my jaw. “Unbelievable.”
He glances sideways at me. “So. Are you going?”
I open my mouth to answer—but my father’s voice, muffled but distinct, calls from inside the room.
“Cristofano Vittorio Bellarosa!”
I flinch.
Matteo grins.
“You will go on the date!” my father growls. “And you will enjoy it!”
I stare at the door. Then glance at Matteo.
He’s barely holding back a laugh.
I sigh. “Apparently...I don’t have a choice.”
****
Carlton Wine Room, Melbourne, Australia
The restaurant is dimly lit—warm wood, aged brick, candlelight softening the edges of what would otherwise feel like a high-end interrogation room. Couples murmur over pinot noir and cured duck. A live pianist plays something smooth and forgettable in the background.
Across from me, she talks. And talks.
I’ve lost track of what about.
Something to do with her brother’s dog and a fashion internship in Milan that she turned down because “mafia girls shouldn’t work.” Her words trail ribbons of perfume into the air—something floral and sharp, clinging to the edge of citrus.
She’s beautiful, undeniably.
Wide eyes, unnaturally bright, framed with lashes too perfect to be real.
Her lips are full, glossy, and moving with practiced rhythm.
Her dress is cut to reveal just enough to imply access, but not intention.
Her hair is pinned in a vintage twist, copper-gold in the low light. A calculated elegance.
She’s the kind of woman who’s been taught since birth how to hold a man’s attention.
And yet—my mind drifts.
My glass is full. I haven’t taken a sip.
“…Cristofano,” she says suddenly, tilting her head, smile curling. “Are you always this…present on dates?”
I blink. “Apologies.”
She laughs—lilting, musical, and too polished. “It’s fine. Really. But it makes me wonder.”
She leans in across the table, elbow grazing the linen, voice dropping just enough to feign intimacy.
“You know…rumor has it, you're gay.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And if I were?”
Her smile falters, just for a fraction. She recovers quickly, brushing her finger along the stem of her wine glass. “Well, then I could stop wasting my time.”
I turn slightly toward Matteo, who sits just behind us at the next table, nursing a whiskey and keeping a watchful eye on the room.
“Matteo,” I say, deadpan. “Would you be interested in being my lover?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “You’re not quite my type, Don.”
I smirk. “Ouch.”
The woman doesn’t laugh.
She crosses her legs slowly, her foot brushing mine beneath the table.
“I looked into you, you know. You don’t have any girlfriends. No lovers. Not even the usual arrangement girls. Are you…?”
She lets her gaze drop—slow and deliberate—then back up again with a spark of provocation.
“Does it even work?”
I tilt my head, lips curling slightly.
“Oh, it works,” I say, my voice low. “A bit too well.”
For a moment, I’m not here.
I’m back in Rome. Seven years ago. A hotel with no name in a district I’ve never returned to. With a woman with tired eyes and a quick wit. She smelled like violin rosin and clove soap. She’d laughed at my silence. Bit my neck when she came. And for weeks after, I couldn’t get the little one down.
She’d unleashed something no one’s come close to touching since. I still feel her when I wake up too fast. I still hear her voice when it rains.
I blink, focus narrowing back to the table.
The woman across from me is still waiting.
She starts chewing me out in soft, clipped Italian-laced English. Her accent is old-school Sicilian, but filtered through Monaco-boarding-school polish.
“You’re impossible, you know that? A waste of time and charm. Is this some sort of power game? Does disinterest keep you in control?”
I don’t respond. Matteo stands behind her, touching my shoulder once as he leans in.
“è l’informatore,” he murmurs close to my ear. “Quello della polizia italiana. Vuole parlarti. Di persona.”
It’s the informant. The one from the Italian police. He wants to speak with you. In person.
My posture shifts a little. I glance at him. “Qui?”
Here?
“Fuori. Sta per entrare.”
Outside. He’s about to come in
The woman’s tone sharpens. “Are you ditching me?”
I stand, unfolding my napkin and setting it gently on the table. “Yes.”
She blinks once, then stiffens. “You're a bastard.”
She lifts her glass of red wine—Barolo, if I’m not mistaken—and throws it. A perfect arc.
It splashes across my chest, staining my shirt in deep purple blooms. The liquid trickles slowly down the front of my jacket.
“Impotent prick,” she hisses, grabbing her clutch.
She storms out in six-inch heels that click like gunshots on the marble.
I sigh and take a napkin from the table, blotting the wine calmly.
“She was charming,” I mutter.
Matteo doesn’t look up. “Very.”
A figure enters the restaurant—compact, hooded, and careful. He glances once at the ma?tre d’ before spotting me and walking over.
I nod to Matteo, who steps aside.
The man lowers his hood once he reaches me—sharp features, thin mouth, tired eyes.
He tosses a thick envelope onto the table without sitting.
I pick up the envelope. It’s unsealed.
Inside: photographs. Grainy. Surveillance angles. One of them is my estate.
My hand stills on the edge of the folder. Why was the Italian police looking into my home? I had no run-ins with them.
I look up at him. “Chi?”
Who?
He grins and rubs his palms. “I came all the way here to deliver classified files. Can’t I get a little encouragement?”
I inhale and look at Matteo.
“You will be compensated,” Matteo tells him.
His grin widens. “Then I’ll open my big mouth.