Chapter 8 – Cristofano
The stink of diesel and rotting wood sticks to the walls of the warehouse like it’s soaked into the concrete.
The roof groans every few minutes, wind dragging against rusted panels high above.
Sunlight barely filters through the broken windows, casting long, fractured stripes across the floor like prison bars.
He kneels in the middle of the room.
They always kneel by the end.
His face is swollen—purple blooms under both eyes, one of them leaking. His nose is crooked now, blood smeared across his lips. His arms are tied behind his back with plastic cable ties, his shirt soaked through with sweat and his own piss.
He keeps trying to meet my eyes.
I light the cigarette with slow precision. Pull the flame close. Let the tip burn bright, then dim as I bring it to my lips. The smoke is bitter. It curls around my jawline like steam rising from steel.
I step closer.
My boots make no sound on the concrete. Just the shift of my weight. The leather whispering with movement.
“I didn’t sell anything,” the man says. His voice is wet. It grates from somewhere low in his throat, like he’s swallowed gravel. “I swear, I didn’t—”
I crouch in front of him.
His gaze flickers. There it is—fear. I hold the cigarette between two fingers and tap the ash gently onto the back of his hand.
He flinches, a high sound escaping him.
I don’t move. I hold it there. Let the smoke sting his eyes.
“You took five crates from Dock 4,” I say quietly. “And gave them to people who were not ours.”
“I thought they were ours,” he stammers. “The same van—same tag—”
“You thought.”
I press the cigarette slowly against the fabric at his collarbone. There’s a faint hiss as it meets damp cotton and then—skin.
He screams.
I don’t look away.
Behind me, Matteo watches. His hand twitches near his belt, but he doesn’t interrupt.
I speak calmly.
“No one moves our product without clearance. No one touches a single box without a shadow behind them. You knew that.”
The man is sobbing now, shoulders shaking.
“I—I have kids….”
“So do half the men who do their job properly.”
I stand and flick the cigarette to the floor.
“Matteo,” I say, not turning. “Finish it.”
There’s a pause.
Then a soft click. Gunmetal.
I don’t watch.
I walk toward the open bay doors, the warm smell of the afternoon breeze brushing up against the blood-soaked interior.
A crack echoes behind me. A gull screams high above the docks.
****
We walk to the car in the open lot. Dust kicking up in little clouds. It’s bright out here. The light feels too clean after the warehouse. My shirt smells of smoke and iron.
Matteo keeps a respectful distance as he walks behind me. He knows better than to break the silence too early. He always knows when something’s off.
Still, after a few moments, he clears his throat.
“The shipment from Kalgoorlie’s cleared customs. Clean paperwork. I spoke to the handler directly.” He watches my side profile as we walk. “The men we stationed in Brisbane confirmed control of the new dock rotation. No federal sniffing. Port registry checks out.”
I nod once.
Matteo hesitates. “We—uh—we also handled the Avellino leak. Quietly. They won’t be talking.”
I stop by the car. The driver’s already holding the back door open.
But I don’t get in.
“Take me to the bar.”
Matteo blinks. “You want to—now?”
I turn my head just slightly. Meet his gaze without blinking.
He shuts his mouth and nods. “Alright.”
The inside of the car smells like leather and pine cleaner. The windows are tinted too dark, keeping the daylight out. I slide in and close the door behind me with a soft click.
Matteo settles beside me, stiff.
I rest my forearm against the edge of the door and stare out at the passing docks. Fences. Shipping containers. Rusted freight cranes looming over the water like tired giants.
But my thoughts are somewhere else entirely. She didn’t recognize me.
Not even a flicker of pause in her eyes. Not in her voice. Not in the way her fingers moved. Like I was no one. Like I was forgettable.
Seven years. One night that left something raw inside of me.
She vanished without a note. I remember waking up and reaching for her. Only empty sheets. The scent of her still soaked into the pillow.
I’d searched the city for a day. Just to know her name.
Never found her. Until she shows up in a maid’s uniform, speaking with a lower register, avoiding eye contact like I’m just another man who signs her pay.
I inhale slowly. The heat that spreads through my chest isn’t anger.
The bar glows ahead, neon flickering in the daylight.
“Pull in,” I say.
The driver does as told. Matteo watches me from the corner of his eye.
****
Bellarosa Estate – Near Midnight
The walls are moving.
Or maybe it’s me. Yeah—definitely me.
“Steady, Don,” Matteo mutters, one arm hooked under my shoulder, the other gripping my wrist with the kind of grip he usually saves for disarming men twice his size. “You’re not walking in a straight line. You’re zigzagging like a cursed sailboat.”
I laugh. It comes out loud and cracked.
“You know what’s really crooked?” I say, pointing too hard at the air. “Love. Love’s crooked. Women? Crooked. Pretty eyes, crooked mouths. One night. One night and then poof!—gone.”
“You’re drunk,” Matteo sighs. “Spectacularly drunk. Try walking, not talking.”
“She just left, Matteo,” I hiss the name, slurring the ‘t’. “No goodbye. No note. Nothing. I—I looked for her. I looked.”
He exhales heavily. His arm tightens around me as I drag my feet forward.
We round the corner—walls yawning too wide, shadows tilting across the marble floors like they’re drunk too—and that’s when we see her.
She’s on the staircase. Descending slowly. Barely making a sound.
The maid. Serafina. No. Elia. No. Serafina.
She pauses at the foot of the stairs when she sees us. She bows slightly—shoulders curved inward, chin dropped, hands folded in front like she’s about to ask permission to breathe.
I squint at her.
Something in my chest twists.
“You,” I say, blinking hard. “C’mere.”
She hesitates.
Matteo straightens. “Maybe not the best—”
“I said come here,” I snap, louder than I mean to. My voice echoes off the stone arch.
Her head bobs.
She steps forward with soft, careful movements. Her shoes barely tap the floor.
I look at her, and my mouth twists in something between a grin and a grimace.
“What do you want?” I ask. “It’s the middle of the fucking night.”
Her hands twitch at her sides. “Forgive me, sir. No one’s assigned me any duties yet. I’ve been idle. I—I didn’t want to displease.”
Her voice is small. Wrapped in something careful. Worn.
I laugh. It tumbles out of me like a slow roll down a steep hill.
“Duties?” I say, arms spreading. “Okay. Okay, good. Here’s your duty. Lead me. Lead me to my royal room, sweet maid.”
I take a step—then two—and the world tips.
My weight lands on her.
She gasps, stumbling.
One foot drags back. Her shoulder stiffens beneath mine. Her hands find my side. She steadies me.
I smell lavender soap on her skin.
Matteo steps forward. “Let me take him.”
“No,” I mumble, pushing him away clumsily with one hand. “No. I said she will.”
Matteo’s mouth pulls tight.
She speaks, soft but even. “It’s fine, sir. I’ll take him.”
I laugh again. “Such a good maid.”
She shifts under me, sliding my arm more tightly over her shoulder, adjusting the pressure at my back. She’s stronger than she looks, but I can feel the strain in her every step.
“Which way?” she asks gently.
I wave vaguely. “Upstairs. East wing. End of the hall. Big doors. Can’t miss it.”
The hallway is too long.
The lights buzz overhead. Each one seems to blink just as we pass.
My feet drag. I lean into her.
She staggers once but catches us both. Her breath brushes my cheek. Her hair is pinned tight, but a few strands fall against her temple.
The staircase is a nightmare. She braces herself against the railing, guiding me with slow, determined strength.
Halfway up, I glance at her face. Still pretending she doesn’t know me.
But I know her.
God, I know her.
At the top of the stairs, she pauses to catch her breath. Her brow is damp. Her jaw is tight. But her eyes are down, like always.
We turn down the hall. Everything is echoing.
She stops in front of the double doors and shifts my weight carefully.
“Here?” she whispers.
I nod.
She pushes one of the doors open with her foot.
The room swallows us whole.
It’s large. Vaulted ceiling. Heavy beams overhead like ribs in an ancient chest. The lights are low, dimmed to a soft amber. Heavy curtains hang drawn over the windows. The fireplace is out, but the scent of old smoke lingers. The carpet underfoot mutes our steps.
She leads me in.
Each breath she takes is shallow, like she’s afraid to make noise.
My bed waits at the center of the room, dressed in charcoal linen and a fur throw folded across the foot. She steers me to the edge.
I slump down with a grunt. The mattress sighs under my weight.
“Fuck,” I mutter, hand to my side. A twinge burns through my ribs. Probably from the chair I kicked earlier. Or maybe it was the bar fight—can’t remember.
I start fumbling with my buttons. My fingers miss twice.
I catch her watching her shoulders tensing like a bowstring pulled too tight.
I scoff. “You’re shy now?”
She doesn’t speak.
“Come,” I say.
She flinches.
My jaw twitches. “Come here.”
My voice cuts louder than I intended. It echoes once, bounces back from the stone wall.
She stops in front of me. Her fingers twitch at her sides. Her mouth is tight, pressed into a line that trembles at the edges.
“Unbutton it.”
She lowers herself to her knees.
Her hands rise, hesitating just beneath my chest before touching the top button of my shirt. Her fingers brush the fabric, feeling the heat beneath.
The first button pops.
She swallows.
The second.
Her breathing changes.
I lean closer. My hands lift.
I touch her face.
Her skin is warm. The pad of my thumb grazes her cheekbone. I feel her flinch just barely under the contact, but she doesn’t pull back.
I study her—up close.
Her eyes are lowered.
I search them anyway.
Please.
Look at me.
See me.
My thumb traces along her jaw, slow.
Her lips part slightly.
Nothing. No flicker. No shift. No spark of memory.
Still blank. Still that same practiced, vacant calm.
The third button slides loose. Then the fourth. Her fingers are trembling now, but she keeps going. Keeps undoing my shirt like she was born to serve. Or like she’s afraid of what happens if she doesn’t.