Chapter 4 - Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate, Melbourne
The needle slips into the skin with a practiced flick of the wrist.
My father flinches—barely—but I catch it.
Elena, the nurse, murmurs something soft in Italian, eyes downcast. She presses a cotton pad to the injection site and withdraws with the quiet deference of someone trained to survive proximity to power.
My father huffs through his nose and glares at me over the collar of his robe.
“You offended her,” he says flatly. His voice is thin but steady, still sharp enough to cut. He is talking about my date.
I fold my arms, leaning against the frame of the bedroom window. The view outside is golden with late morning—hazy light spilling over the vineyard and the trellised paths beyond the hedge wall.
“She was boring,” I say.
“She was refined,” he snaps. “She came from a bloodline older than Sicily.” He shrugs beneath the heavy blanket. “You’re too sensitive.”
“She threw wine at me.”
Elena finishes organizing the medication tray and stands, bowing slightly before backing out of the room without turning her back.
The moment she’s gone, Matteo slips in through the partially opened door.
He doesn’t speak until Elena is well out of earshot.
Then, in a low voice: “The informant’s on the line.”
I straighten and nod once.
My father notices the shift immediately. “Don’t you walk out on me.”
I start toward the hallway.
“I will get you another date,” he yells after me, voice rasping but loud. “And you will be charming!”
I don’t answer until we’re in the corridor.
“Make sure he has no access to phones,” I mutter to Matteo, keeping my pace steady. “Just herbal tea and warm oil massages.”
Matteo smirks. “That’ll last until he starts bribing the masseuse.”
“I said what I said.”
We walk side-by-side through the arched hallway of the estate. The walls are limestone, cool even in summer, lined with old family portraits and a few carefully chosen modern oils. A quiet reverence hums in the stone here. Blood has moved through these halls for generations.
The conference room is at the end of the west wing—a room paneled in dark oak, the windows shuttered against light. Matteo shuts the door behind us and locks it.
I sit at the head of the table and tap the speakerphone. A single red light blinks before the voice crackles through.
“I did what you asked,” the informant says. His voice is cautious. Careful not to carry too much weight.
I lean forward, elbows on the armrests. “Let’s rewind,” I say. “Just so I remember who’s playing what part.”
His breath stutters over the line.
And in my mind, I’m there again. Our conversation from yesterday.
“They’re coming for you,” he said. “Italy’s Bureau of Narcotics. They’re preparing an indictment.”
I didn’t move. “For?”
“Trafficking. Heroin shipments through ports you supposedly control.”
Matteo stood behind me, arms crossed. “We don’t deal heroin. We deal in ammunition.”
“We don’t even control any of the ports listed,” I added.
He nodded quickly. “Exactly. That’s what made me think you needed to know.”
I opened the file.
Photos. Grainy dockyard angles. Dates. Manifests. Port numbers.
I recognized none of them.
“They think you killed an officer that was sent down to investigate,” the informant added. “Australia. An undercover asset.”
My jaw ticked.
I glanced back at Matteo. “Did we?”
“No,” he answered without hesitation. “We’ve never touched law enforcement. Not even by accident.”
I closed the file.
“They don’t move on mafia cases lightly,” I said. “Someone wants this to stick.”
The informant swallows hard. “So…what do you want me to do?”
I looked him in the eye. “Nothing. Let them come. But I want to see who is coming. Make it easy for them. Give them an entry point.”
He hesitated. “A weak point in your house?”
“No. A believable point. Something just open enough to tempt. Just real enough to trust. But I want control over the narrative.”
He nodded slowly. “I can create an opening. Something that passes intel checks.”
I blink out of the memory, the room sharp again.
Over the speaker, the informant speaks low and steady.
“I forged the entry. I ran it through the Italian desk myself. An internal memo suggested a new staff rotation at your estate. I submitted a requisition—domestic staff, vetted background. They bit.”
I glance at Matteo. He leans forward slightly.
“The cop?” I ask. “Male or female?”
“Woman,” he replies. “One of their best. I can’t send out pictures. I’ll be caught.”
I nod. Her profile is enough; I just need a name. “You’ve done well.”
There’s a pause. Then the line clicks. Gone.
Matteo exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “This is a dangerous game.”
I push my chair back slowly. “What’s the point of a life without danger?”
The room is still humming with residual tension from the call when Matteo’s phone buzzes.
He checks it with a glance—then his brows draw together. A pause.
“What?” I ask, already bracing for another storm.
He lowers the phone slowly. “Your father’s summoning you.”
I blink. “He’s supposed to be asleep.”
Matteo nods grimly. “Yeah, about that…. He’s not in his room.”
I push up from the chair, the legs scraping softly against the hardwood. “Where is he?”
“Downstairs.”
My steps are immediate, fast, echoing through the marble hall as I storm down the corridor. Matteo follows close behind, silent, professional—but even he looks uneasy.
We round the bend into the main foyer.
And stop.
There, beneath the massive chandelier, beside the sweeping iron staircase, my father sits in his wheelchair. Draped in a wool shawl, a heavy gold ring glinting on his veined hand, eyes clear and too smug for a man who had just had blood pressure meds an hour ago.
But it’s not him that freezes me.
It’s the woman beside him. The woman from the date yesterday.
She’s standing with perfect posture, chin tilted, arms crossed tightly beneath her chest—but not in defense. In amusement.
Her dress is deep emerald today. Simple, tailored, expensive. Her lipstick is red this time. The kind that leaves marks. Her gaze flicks toward me—mocking and unashamed.
She’s smirking.
And he’s shaking her hand like she’s already signed something in blood.
I step forward, slow.
“Papà,” I say, switching to Italian, my voice low. “Perché non sei a riposo?”
Why aren’t you resting?
He doesn’t even look guilty.
“Sono andato a prendere tua moglie.”
I went to get your new wife.
I stop just short of him, hand resting on the back of his wheelchair.
“Very funny,” I murmur. “Let’s go. I’ll put you to bed myself.”
He yanks slightly against my grip—not hard, but enough to remind me that, despite his condition, the old man has a spine carved from Sicilian marble.
“No jokes,” he snaps, eyes flashing. “The date didn’t go well because you’re impossible. So I brought her back. This time, you’ll behave.”
My jaw tightens.
Matteo shifts awkwardly behind me, watching the interaction unfold like he’s witnessing a power shift in a nation-state.
I glance at her.
She’s leaning slightly on one foot, hip popped, as if she’s been waiting for this moment to arrive all morning.
She lifts a hand. Waves, just once.
“Hello, husband,” she says, her voice as honeyed and smug as ever.
I don’t move.
My father looks up at me, voice lowering with finality. “Preparati.”
Prepare yourself.
I narrow my eyes.
He continues, unwavering. “The Blue Moon is coming. You will marry her. You will bind the bloodline.”