Chapter 10 – Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate
My skull is splitting.
I groan and shove the heel of my palm into my forehead, as if I could press the pain back in.
The sun slices through the curtains, stabbing right through my eyelids. I blink against it, squinting into the blur. The sheets are twisted around my hips, heavy with heat and sweat and the haze of memory.
My mouth tastes like smoke and liquor. My back aches. My head’s a drumbeat.
“Matteo,” I rasp, sitting up with effort. “Matteo, you bastard, you were supposed to—”
The door clicks. Not Matteo.
She glides in.
Tight black dress. Bare shoulders. Her legs stretch long beneath the hem. Her hair is slicked back into a twist. Eyes lined thick, red lipstick already smudged like she’s come from somewhere else.
Alessandra. The woman my father insists on. She crosses the room like she owns it and perches on the edge of the bed, her thigh brushing mine.
She leans in, cupping my face.
Her mouth presses to mine before I can move.
I pull back. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stare at her.
“What do you want?”
She smiles, tilting her head. “I want you.”
She reaches down, unzips her purse with a slow, fluid motion, and pulls out a box of condoms. Tosses them onto the bed between us like a peace offering.
I stare at the box. Then her.
I sigh.
“Get out,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m getting in the shower.”
I stand and stretch my arms above my head until my spine cracks. My shoulders ache, and the motion makes my stomach curl again.
I hear her rise behind me.
And then her arms are around my waist.
Her face presses into my back. Her perfume blooms against my skin.
“Cristofano,” she murmurs. “Do you really not want me?”
Her voice is softer. No flirtation.
Just a question. One she might not want the answer to.
I go still. Her arms tighten just slightly.
I should pull her off.
But instead, my mind moves without me—to another woman. One who didn’t paint herself in desire. One who bowed without looking me in the eye. One whose hands shook when they touched me—but still touched. Serafina.
My breath deepens. I can still smell her. Lavender and soap. I can still see her—eyes wide, flushed cheeks, lips parted just slightly like she was afraid to breathe near me.
I turn.
Alessandra’s arms fall to her sides.
I take her wrists, gently, and lower them.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
She watches me closely.
“You’re strong. Clever. You’ve been trained for this world, and you wear it better than most men I know.”
Her mouth twitches. Just slightly.
“But I won’t lie to you. You deserve more than being tolerated. You deserve to be wanted back.”
Her lashes lower.
“I’m not him,” I add. “Not for you.”
She blinks.
Then speaks in Italian—quiet, certain: “Io voglio te.”
I want you.
I open my mouth.
The door crashes open. Alessandra jumps, startled.
I turn sharply, my hand half-raised—
And freeze. She’s standing in the doorway.
Serafina.
A silver tray balanced in her trembling hands. A white linen napkin is folded beneath a covered plate. Her shoulders are stiff, her spine visibly straightened with effort.
Her eyes widen when she sees us.
She lowers her gaze at once.
“ I-I-I’m sorry, Signore—I should have knocked. I didn’t know—”
Her voice breaks. Her fingers twitch. The tray shakes slightly.
I say nothing.
Serafina steps forward, gaze still on the floor, and crosses the room with careful, measured steps. She places the tray on the side table beside the bed, fingers lingering a second too long on the edge.
“I’ll—I’ll go now,” she whispers, bowing again.
She turns and walks out fast, head down.
The door clicks softly behind her. I’m still staring.
Alessandra scoffs beside me.
I look down.
Below the thin cotton of my boxers, my body’s betrayed me. I have an erection just from seeing her.
She laughs once, flat. “Really?” She gestures to the door. “That’s the one?”
I don’t answer.
Because the answer’s already there—my dick, pressing against the fabric with zero shame.
And God help me…I don’t even feel sorry.
****
My office is quiet except for the low tick of the antique wall clock and the occasional rustle of paper when I shift the file open on my desk. My jacket hangs on the back of my chair. My sleeves are rolled to the elbows. A glass of watered-down bourbon sits half-drunk near my hand.
The door clicks softly.
Matteo steps in, crisp in a black button-down, sleeves ironed to perfection. He closes the door behind him and lingers just inside the room, one hand at his side, the other holding a slim tablet.
“She left,” he says simply.
I glance up. “Alessandra?”
He nods. “An hour ago. Said she’d be back after the weekend.”
I snort under my breath and sit back in my chair. “And let me guess—my father suggested she spend the weekend here.”
Matteo’s mouth twitches. “He insisted on it.”
I scrub a hand down my face and exhale. “Schedule a work trip or something. Make up a reason I have to be in Hobart. Tomorrow.”
Matteo shifts, but he doesn’t leave.
I arch an eyebrow.
He clears his throat. “Don’t throw anything.”
“That depends.”
He lifts his gaze. “Were you serious about having the maid as a lover?”
I go still.
He keeps talking. “Because I walked in on you last night. On the bed. You on top of her.”
I lean forward, elbows pressing into the desk. My fingers steeple under my chin.
“Jealous, Matteo?”
He rolls his eyes. “Curious.”
I study him. His posture is relaxed, but there’s a pulse of something sharper beneath it. Loyalty, yes. But more than that—concern.
He finally adds, “Your father would not approve.”
“Since when do I seek his blessing for who I fuck?”
“It’s not about that,” Matteo says quietly. “It’s about what she is.”
The room falls into silence for a beat.
And I remember. She’s not just a maid. She’s a cop.
The edges of my memory sharpen. Her controlled movements. The way her eyes scan without looking. Her submissive act a little too practiced.
For a second, I’d forgotten.
I lean back again.
“And when do you think she’ll make a move?” I ask, voice calm.
Matteo’s face returns to neutral.
“I assigned her light housekeeping,” he says. “Your bedroom, dressing room, your study—like you asked. She’s careful, but she’s curious. It won’t take long.”
“She’ll go lurking soon,” I murmur.
“She already lingers.”
I nod.
Outside the window, the vineyard stretches into gold and shadow, the late sun washing over the rows like fire.
Matteo shifts his weight. “If we catch her…what then? Do we finish her?”
I don’t answer immediately.
I let the words settle between us, like dust.
Then I shake my head slowly. “No.”
“She’s a threat.”
“She’s a question,” I correct. “We find out who sent her. Who trained her. And why they needed to pin a fake trafficking case on us just to get close.”
Matteo gives a tight nod and turns, but I stop him with a low voice.
“Matteo.”
He pauses, hand on the door.
“If she does find something, don't touch her.”
He looks over his shoulder. His brow lifts.
“Not yet,” I add.
He leaves without another word.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
I stay in my chair. Still.
My thoughts spiral slowly, steadily, like smoke rising from a single ember.
I can see her in my mind again—standing in my room, clutching the tray with both hands, her fingers trembling as she bowed. Her face pink with shame. Her mouth pressed tight. Her breathing shallow.
She didn’t recognize me.
Or maybe she did, and she’s playing something deeper.
I don’t know which is worse.
I shift my chair, staring at the Blue Moon calendar still pinned above the liquor cart. The silver ink glints faintly in the light.
It’s less than two months away.
I rub my thumb along the edge of my glass, and I lean back, eyes on the ceiling, heart beating once.
She’s already under my skin.