Chapter 6 – Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate, Melbourne
My father is eating grapes.
That’s how I know this argument will go nowhere.
He’s reclined on the upper terrace in full sun, a silk blanket tucked over his knees and a crystal dish of washed green grapes balanced beside the arm of his wheelchair.
He plucks one slowly, savors it like a ritual, and looks up at me with the exact expression he wore when I was sixteen and caught lying about sneaking out of the estate.
Playful.
Unmoved.
And stubborn as hell.
“I’m not marrying her,” I say flatly, arms crossed.
He pops a grape in his mouth and chews. Loudly.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he says. “It’s not an execution. It’s a wedding.”
“It’s not anything. We went on one date.”
“Yes, and you were rude. You made Matteo pretend to be your boyfriend.”
“I was avoiding a political arrangement.”
“You were being a child.”
I exhale through my nose and walk to the edge of the balcony, looking out over the vineyards. The sun’s lower now—late afternoon—burning the hills in warm bronze.
“I have business to handle,” I say. “A dock manifest in Hobson’s Bay flagged three containers—”
He raises a finger. “No excuses.”
“I’m serious—”
He claps twice.
The nurse appears almost instantly from the hallway door, syringe in hand.
My father smiles at me. “You’re exhausting, figlio mio. I need a nap.”
“You’re sedating yourself to escape this conversation?”
“To escape you,” he says cheerfully, rolling up the sleeve of his robe. “Be nice to her. And give me grandchildren. Strong ones.”
I rub a hand over my face as the nurse injects the sedative, and he reclines with a satisfied sigh.
“She’s very pretty,” he mumbles, already drifting. “And you’re impossible.”
I turn on my heel and walk off before he starts dreaming out loud.
His voice follows me anyway, faint but audible. “Sii gentile, stupido.... Be nice!”
I round the corner toward the west wing just in time to almost collide with her.
She’s standing barefoot near the kitchen archway in a thin, tracing nightdress—champagne silk that clings too easily to skin, with a satin ribbon tied lazily around her waist. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a few strands loose and curling near her collarbone.
She’s holding a mug of coffee and smiling like she’s lived here for years.
“You’re up early,” she says, her tone too casual. “Or is this you staying up late, brooding on the balcony?”
I step back.
She closes the distance with no hesitation and presses a kiss to my chin. Her perfume is heady and floral.
I pull away. “Go get dressed.”
She sips her coffee. “No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She raises her cup in a mock toast. “Alessandra Morelli. Just in case you didn’t catch it the first time.”
She’s right—I didn’t. I wasn’t listening.
I inhale to speak, already forming something sharp, but Matteo appears in the hallway. His pace is brisk, and he nods once as he approaches, not breaking stride.
“L’uccello è arrivato.”
The bird is here.
I nod, the words sliding into place. The Italian cop sent to spy on me was here.
She tilts her head, still smiling. “That’s not very romantic.”
I glance at her. “Leave. Be gone before I’m back.”
She leans in slightly. “Non succederà.”
Not happening.
I clench my jaw and turn from her, walking toward my office with Matteo at my side.
Inside, the screens are already live.
A feed of the front entry plays silently. Matteo taps the keyboard once to cycle through angles.
“There,” he says.
One frame pauses.
A woman stands beside a black town car, holding a travel bag. The driver nods, gets back in, and pulls away.
She’s in uniform—modest, plain. White button-up blouse, beige slacks, dark flats. Her hair is tied in a loose twist at the base of her neck. Her posture is steady. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t scan the space. Just waits.
Something about her stillness pricks at me.
“Zoom,” I say.
Matteo does.
She lifts her face to look toward the door.
And my heart stops.
No.
No, no—no.
My fingers tighten against the armrest of the chair. I lean in, close. The camera picks up her eyes—green, gold-flecked. And the shape of her mouth. I know that mouth. I’ve memorized it in another life. The soft indent in her lower lip. The arch of her brows.
The scent of her sweat is a memory I can still feel on my tongue.
Rome. Seven years ago. The same face.
The night that ruined all the others.
The day we spent together after. The hours. The silence. The heat. And then waking up alone.
Matteo frowns, watching me.
“You good?”
I don’t answer.
He walks over and hands me the tablet with the personnel entry log. I scroll. My finger slows.
Alias: Elia Rosetti
Real Name: Serafina Lucia Romano
I look at the face on the screen. It was seven years, but I recall her clearly. The woman who left my bed before I woke. The woman they’ve just sent into my house.
My pulse settles in my throat. I remember waking alone, the sheets still warm, her scent clinging to my skin like a ghost. I had never chased after women, never lowered myself to search for something fleeting.
But I broke my own rule then. I had my men sweep Rome, descriptions whispered through the underworld until her name came back to me. Serafina Romano.
A name I told myself to forget. A name I buried by boarding a flight back to Melbourne, convincing myself she was only one night. My fingers tighten on the folder, a muscle jumping in my jaw.
“This has to be a joke,” I mutter.
****
Bellarosa Estate, South Wing Receiving Room
The door opens quietly, and she steps in with her head bowed.
Elia Rossetti. Serafina.
She walks two paces into the room before stopping, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. Her hands are clasped in front of her—tightly, like she’s holding onto something that might slip if she lets go.
The posture is perfect. Submissive. Trained.
Matteo stands just behind me, arms folded, half leaning against the bookshelf. I don’t look at him. My focus is on her.
Her hair is darker than I remember—chestnut brown, braided and pinned into a tidy coil at the nape of her neck. No makeup, or almost none. Just bare skin, pale and drawn under the eyes, as if sleep and she have had a falling out. She looks thinner. And yet, somehow, she looks younger.
Seven years and not a day etched into her skin. She finally lifts her chin.
Still not enough to look at me directly.
Her voice is soft, lightly accented. Naples, as scripted.
“My name is Elia Rosetti, sir,” she says.
“I want to thank you for taking me on. I come from Naples, originally. I was raised in a house for girls just outside Avellino. I’ve worked in homes before—in private estates.
I understand privacy. I clean well. I iron.
I don’t gossip. You won’t be disappointed. ”
She’s breathing fast. A trained cadence. Her hands tighten slightly in front of her skirt.
“I know I don’t have the pedigree others might have, but I promise I’ll make myself useful. I’m grateful to be here.”
A perfect portrait.
And nothing—nothing—gives her away. Except that I know her.
Except that I remember her eyes in candlelight and her fingers in my hair and the sound of her breath when she whispered into my neck. Except that I know what her mouth tastes like when she laughs mid-kiss. She rambles, clearly rehearsed.
But all I can think of is how she left that night without saying goodbye.
I smile.
“Do you have any lovers?” I ask.
She goes still.
The question slices across the room like a blade, clean and quiet.
Matteo lifts his head behind me. Even he glances sideways, eyes narrowing.
Serafina’s mouth parts slightly. Her shoulders tighten.
“I….” She blinks. “No, sir.”
I tilt my head.
“I take lovers among my staff,” I say casually. “You might be the lucky one.”
She inhales—shallow, just once—and lowers her eyes.
“I’m sure…” she begins slowly, “I’m sure someone of your standing has far better taste than to be with someone as lowly as me.”
Her tone is quiet. But her fingers tighten where they rest.
I take one step closer. Just one.
“You’re right,” I say. “You are lowly. And I hope you remember that.”
She nods once, quickly. “Yes, sir.”
I wave a hand toward the door. “That’ll be all.”
Matteo speaks for the first time. “Guard—escort her to the staff quarters. Room five.”
The door opens again. She curtsies slightly, as if that one movement might shield her from a storm, and exits without another word.
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
Silence stretches.
Then Matteo mutters, “What the hell was that?”
I glance at him.
“Are you my boyfriend, Matteo?”
He rolls his eyes hard enough that I hear it in his breath. “Please. You wish.”
But I don’t laugh. I watch the door.
She didn’t look at me once. Not the way someone who once lay in my bed would. Nothing behind her eyes except the tired posture of a working girl in need of money and shelter. She should have been at least surprised to see me.
It doesn’t make sense. And then it hits me.
She doesn’t recognize me.
She forgot.
The thought tastes bitter.
She forgot me.
I clench my jaw, staring at the space she occupied just seconds ago.