Chapter 7 – Serafina
Bellarosa Estate – South Wing, Room Five
The hallway narrows the deeper we go. Stone floors.
Smooth walls painted in muted, neutral tones.
There’s a chill to this part of the house, the kind that creeps along the floor and collects in the corners.
The guard walking ahead of me doesn’t speak.
His boots thud rhythmically against the tile.
He’s broad and silent, body taut in his tailored black uniform.
I trail behind with slow, careful steps, keeping my head slightly lowered, hands clasped in front of me.
Not tight. Just enough to say I belong here.
Just enough to not invite a second look.
We stop in front of Room Five.
He taps a keycard. The lock clicks.
The door opens with a gentle push. He holds it open for me without a word.
I bow my head. “Grazie, signore,” I murmur, barely above a whisper.
He nods, then walks away.
I don’t exhale until his footsteps vanish.
The scent of linen and cleaning solution lingers in the quiet.
The room is plain but immaculate. A single bed sits beneath the far wall, the sheets folded in corners.
A wardrobe, modest in size, rests to the left.
A small desk beside the window. Pale curtains drawn halfway, filtering out the gold of the late afternoon sun.
My steps are soft on the tile.
I walk toward the wardrobe, pass the bed—turn slightly. My eyes drift upward. A small black disc sits flush against the crown molding.
Camera One.
I continue, chin lifting just enough to catch the smoke detector above the desk. The lens is smaller, set behind frosted plastic.
Camera Two.
I nod internally. Expected. Narrow angle. Just enough to see what matters. Just enough to make someone forget it’s there.
I maintain the act—quiet, passive. A maid with no history. No opinions. No reason to raise concern.
My fingers brush the edge of the desk. I turn toward the bathroom door.
The tile squeaks faintly beneath my shoes.
The bathroom is lit softly—an overhead bulb casting long shadows across pale walls and ivory tile. The mirror above the sink is small, rimmed with dull chrome. The shower curtain hangs motionless.
I scan—corners, vent, beneath the counter.
No lens. No wiring. No sound. I close the door.
The sound of the latch engaging feels louder than it is.
I let the silence settle—then I sink.
One knee. Then the other. Legs folding beneath me.
My body lowers onto the tile. Cold, clean. My palms splay flat against the floor. My shoulders shudder. My breath is clipped.
My lungs don’t fill. The air sticks in my chest, heavy and sharp. I gasp—soft, fractured. Again. Short, uneven.
My fingers curl into fists against the tile. My forehead drops forward to rest on the space between them.
My body pulses. I’m not breathing right.
The panic curls around my ribs like wire, squeezing tighter with every ragged inhale. I try to swallow. I can’t. My throat tightens.
A tear slips hot down my cheek.
Him.
Of all people—him. That man. That night. That stranger.
My fingers tighten against the floor.
The flash of his face crashes through me. Sharp cheekbones. Quiet mouth. The way he stared today—like he was seeing through me.
Cristofano. Don of the D’Angelis Syndicate.
The man who I gave myself to in Rome.
My heart stutters violently.
I close my eyes to the picture of that night.
The hotel suite. Candlelight flickering along stone walls. Sheets tangled at my hips. His hand cupping the back of my neck, firm, steady.
We didn’t sleep. We made love all night. Hours bled into hours. Sweat. Skin. Soft groans in the dark. My laughter caught against his mouth.
I fell asleep against his chest. Legs numb. Arms sore. Every part of me used and satiated.
When I woke up, I was in pain.
Not bruised.
But sore. Deep. A throb that pulsed through my lower back, heavy and constant.
He was still asleep. Face relaxed, one arm across the pillow where I’d been. Mouth slightly open. The sheets barely covering him.
I sat up slowly. Swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Breathed through the ache blooming in my abdomen. I didn’t wake him.
I couldn’t.
What would I say? That something hurt? That I didn’t feel right? I was a stranger.
Just a night.
I dressed in silence, each motion slow and controlled. My bra clasped with shaking fingers. My jeans fought against my hips. I winced when I pulled the zipper up.
I clutched my phone and wallet and slipped from the room before he stirred.
The clinic was six blocks away. I took a cab. The waiting room smelled like bleach and cheap coffee. The nurse offered me a glass of water.
The doctor told me the IUD had shifted.
He removed it in silence.
“You’re okay,” he said. “It happens. It was probably the position. No internal trauma. Bleeding will stop in a day. You’re not at risk.”
He smiled.
Said it wasn’t likely I’d get pregnant.
I nodded. Didn’t cry. Didn’t go back to the hotel.
I flew home the next morning.
Two months later—I stared at a pregnancy test on my bathroom counter.
Two lines. Bright pink. I was pregnant.
The first thing I thought wasn’t how. I knew how.
I had an IUD, so I felt safe not using a condom with him.
It was stupid, I know. After him, I hadn't been with anyone else.
I was the stupid girl who got pregnant from a one-night stand.
I didn't even know his name. I decided to keep my baby, tough it out, and do it without him.
Now here he was. Why did I never ask his name?
I press my forehead to my knees. My breath jerks in shallow, aching bursts.
My daughter’s father is a murderer.
My voice breaks against the ceramic silence. “I need to leave.”
Then a sharper, fractured whisper— “Oh fuck…”
Tears spill across my cheeks.
“I need to leave.”
****
The tile is cold against the backs of my thighs. My chest aches with shallow, uneven breaths. I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been sitting on the floor—seconds, minutes—time spills in broken loops between the tremble of my hands and the roar in my ears.
I should move.
I push off the floor with both palms, knees unsteady as I rise.
My legs don’t want to hold me. My right foot slips slightly on the tile.
I catch myself against the wall, one arm braced against the ceramic.
My other hand clutches my stomach—reflex.
Like I could hold in the panic if I pressed hard enough.
He saw me.
He looked at me. Really looked at me.
Did he know?
Would he say it if he did? Or would he wait—until I exhaled, until I believed I was safe—then strike?
My shoulders shake. I pace in a short circle. The bathroom is too small. Too close. My elbows brush the towel hook. I turn again. The hem of my trousers swishes at my ankles.
I can’t breathe.
I’m not safe here. He isn't the sexy stranger I met years ago. He kills people.
I’m not safe.
He’d kill me.
Cristofano Vittorio Bellarosa would put a bullet through my skull and sleep like nothing happened.
I slap a hand against my thigh, feel for the flat disc beneath the waistband of my pants. Thin plastic. Embedded transmitter. I flick it twice, hard.
A soft click. Connection.
The line hisses once, then settles.
“Talk to me,” Tony’s voice comes through, low and steady. “Are you in?”
My hand covers my mouth. “I’m pulling out.”
My voice is so thin it almost doesn’t sound like me.
“I’m leaving. I can’t—Tony—I can’t do this. I’m going to sneak out. Tonight. I’ll climb the wall if I have to.”
I’m pacing again, shoulder brushing the edge of the sink. My reflection flickers in the mirror—eyes wide, unfocused, mouth moving faster than it should.
“He’ll kill me if he knows—if he remembers—he’ll kill me.”
“Serafina.” Tony’s voice sharpens, not loud, but anchoring. “Stop. Talk to me. What’s going on?”
I swallow hard. My fingers are shaking.
“I know him,” I whisper. “Cristofano. I’ve met him before.”
There’s a pause on the line.
Tony’s breath tightens. “You what?”
“I’ve met him. Once. Seven years ago. In Rome.”
I hear rustling on his end, a muttered curse under his breath. I don’t add more details; I tell myself I am being professional. But his silence tells me he is connecting the dots.
“Seven years is a long time,” he says. “You’re still alive, which means he either doesn’t remember you…or doesn’t care.”
I lean over the sink. My knuckles press white into the porcelain. My lips twitch with the threat of tears.
“What if I leave, and that’s what makes him notice?” I murmur. “What if he sees I ran and decides to look deeper?”
Tony doesn’t answer right away. I hear the faint squeak of his chair. A long breath.
“Serafina…listen to me. If you want to walk out, I’ll get you out. But leaving now—this early—is suspicious. If he hasn’t connected you yet, don’t give him a reason to.”
I close my eyes. The light above the mirror hums. My shoulders sag.
“Serafina.”
I open my eyes again.
“If you get us what we need—those documents, shipping logs, the paper trail—we can put him away. And you’re done. You’ll be out before he even knows you were here.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. I clutch the edge of the sink with both hands.
I inhale.
My shoulders still shake. My knees still feel wrong. But my breathing begins to even out. Just slightly.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“You’re not alone,” Tony says, voice soft now. “Not for one second.”
I tap the earpiece twice. The line goes dead.
I reach for the faucet, twist it on, and let cold water pool in my palms.
It splashes against my face, soaking into my collar. My skin tightens from the shock. My lashes drip.
I don’t dry my face. I square my shoulders.
I let my spine fall back into the submissive slouch they expect. I adjust my expression—dull, meek, grateful.
I unlock the bathroom door.
The bedroom is still. Curtains half-drawn. The cameras are still watching.
I cross to the bed and sit slowly, knees pressed together, hands folded on top.
I fix my gaze on the wardrobe. And I wait.