Chapter 11 – Serafina
Bellarosa Estate
I move through the lower hallway with my hands folded lightly in front of me, head inclined just enough to avoid eye contact but not enough to seem evasive. Posture is everything in this house.
“Fresh linens in the Don’s quarters,” I murmur, my voice low, composed. “No folds showing. Tuck corners with full tension. Dust the windowpanes, not just the sills.”
Two younger maids nod. One looks barely nineteen, her apron hanging crooked. She adjusts it quickly under my glance.
I step closer to the nearest guard posted by the west corridor. His stance shifts slightly as I approach—not out of fear, but out of instinct. Men like these don’t look twice at women who don’t speak out of turn.
Still, I keep my eyes on the floor near his boots.
“Sir, you’ll be escorting the Don from his study to the garden later. Check the north wing entry points before he leaves the stairs.”
He gives a short nod. “Understood.”
My hands remain still.
I turn back toward the hall.
It’s been three weeks already, and I already know every turn of this estate. Every locked door. Every armed man. Every eye that lingers too long, and every woman who’s learned to walk a little quieter than the one before her.
The mafia hierarchy isn’t written on paper.
It’s in glances. In who moves first when two people cross a hallway. In who speaks first, and who doesn’t speak at all.
I’ve adapted. Worked so hard that other workers recommended me for head maid, and Cristofano’s right-hand man, Matteo, obliged.
I smile softly when expected. Lower my voice around men. Bow gently when I pass higher staff. I clean efficiently and quietly, and when asked something directly, I pretend to hesitate—then obey.
A good maid doesn’t draw light.
She reflects it.
That’s how I’m still breathing.
I turn toward the dining wing with quiet steps when the soft creak of wood draws my attention.
A figure appears at the top of the grand staircase.
I turn back toward the stairs and start to descend, mentally checking off tasks—bed linen changes, brass polish, hallway perimeter—when his voice slashes through the silence.
“Is this your idea of a clean bathroom?”
I freeze mid-step.
My eyes lift.
Cristofano stands at the middle landing, descending slowly, barefoot. The dark fabric of his robe swings slightly as he walks, tied loosely at the waist, hanging open just enough to expose the sharp ridges of his abdomen and the hard curve of his chest.
He’s not calm.
His shoulders are tense, the muscles tight beneath his collarbones. His jaw is clenched. His mouth flat. Eyes dark and unreadable.
A woman is at his side, her arms wrapped around his like ivy curling up a tree.
She looks like she was poured into silk—blush-colored camisole and shorts that cling to every line of her body. Her skin gleams under the morning light, hair still mussed in that artful, I-slept-in-his-bed-on-purpose way.
His attention never leaves me.
I lower my gaze immediately, dipping my head. “Sir?”
He steps down once more. “The shampoo bottle in my bathroom—empty.”
His voice is sharp. Not loud. Just hard.
“I shouldn't have to call for someone to replace it when you're assigned to my quarters.”
My mouth parts slightly, but I catch myself and close it. I bow again, deeper this time. “I’ll take care of it immediately.”
“You should have taken care of it yesterday.”
The hallway tightens. I feel the other maids stop in the distance, each one shrinking into corners, pretending to look busy.
His tone isn’t theatrical—it’s controlled. Which makes it worse. There’s no fire. Just ice.
The woman, still holding his arm, leans into him with a soft laugh.
“Oh, don’t be so mean,” she says, her voice lazy and teasing. “You’ll frighten her.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at her.
His gaze lingers on me for half a breath longer. Then he turns and continues climbing the stairs without another word, his steps heavy against the marble.
She follows with a bounce in her stride, the silk of her nightwear rippling at her thighs. Before she disappears around the corner, she looks back over her shoulder.
Her eyes meet mine.
She smiles.
“Your boss has a nasty temper, doesn’t he?” she says lightly, as if we’re gossiping across a cafe table.
I bow again, staying low. “I wouldn’t know, Signora. I serve as instructed.”
She watches me for a moment. Then she tips her chin, still half-turned on the stairs.
“Follow me.”
She walks ahead, hips swaying slightly in those delicate silk shorts, her bare feet silent on the thick carpeted hallway.
I follow one step behind, hands folded, gaze respectfully down.
Every curve of her body is effortless. Her posture is ballet-perfect. Her skin glows with sleep and satin. There’s not a strand of hair out of place. Her mouth is soft and full, like it never has to press tight around restraint.
She’s beautiful. She’s polished. She walks like this house is hers.
We reach the east wing, and I recognize the door before she touches it.
The library.
One of the only rooms without internal surveillance. In these few weeks, I have mastered all the rooms and camera angles.
She steps inside.
I pause at the threshold—but only for a breath—and follow. The heavy oak door closes behind me.
I hear the lock slide into place.
This room is scented with aged wood, leather-bound books, and cigar ash sunk deep into the Persian rug. She walks a few paces in. Then stops.
Her eyes are already waiting for mine.
She smiles. “Do you want to sleep with him?”
My chest tightens.
I blink once. “Signora?”
Her head tilts.
“I said—do you want to fuck Cristofano?”
I let the silence stretch a moment—let my mouth hang half-open like the question stunned me.
Then I drop to my knees. As if my legs just gave out beneath me.
My hands press together like I’m praying. My head bows low.
“Signora, I would never—I would never dream of something so vile, so—so against God and this house and loyalty—”
She walks slowly toward me.
Her feet stop right in front of mine. I hear the soft swish of silk. The faint shift of weight in her breath.
“I think you’re lying. Every woman would at least lust after him,” she says flatly.
I sniff. Keep my hands still. Let one tear slip out down my cheek. My lip trembles.
“Signora, I swear—I didn’t—he—I serve as asked—I would never want to tempt—”
She crouches beside me.
Her fingers catch my chin, lifting my face sharply. Her grip is firm.
Her nails are polished. Pale pink. Not a chip.
“I’m engaged to him,” she says. “Did you know that?”
I shake my head. “He loves me,” she continues. “But men…” she sighs, as if the words bore her, “have wandering eyes. Especially when something new walks in.”
I draw in a shaky breath. Let it catch in my throat. My shoulders tremble.
“I didn’t mean—I never looked—”
“You don’t have to look,” she says, smiling again. “You’re just there.”
She leans in close enough for her breath to warm my ear. “I want you to resign.”
My mouth parts. “I—I can’t, miss. My contract forbids me from retiring before a month.”
She straightens, yanking my chin upward until I wince. “Then a month it is.” She releases me with a flick of her fingers. “Be gone by then.”
She steps back. Stands tall again.
Her posture resets to elegance, her voice light as air.
“You can even be here for the wedding. You can be a bridesmaid.”
She smiles wider. Then she lifts one bare foot and kicks me. Just enough to knock me sideways.
I catch myself on my elbow, my breath caught between a gasp and a grunt. My skirt bunches beneath me.
She walks past, calm, graceful, chin high. The door opens. Then closes behind her.
I sit there on the carpet for a moment. Let the burning tear trail off my cheek. My hands slowly unclench from where they’d dug into the rug.
Then I wipe my eyes once.
I push off the floor, dust my knees with slow, sharp movements, and roll my eyes.
“She is so lucky I am undercover.”
****
I carry the tray of toiletries against my chest, the tops of the bottles clinking gently together with every step.
I enter his room to see windows cracked open just enough to let the early breeze spill through.
I reach the en suite bathroom and set the tray down on the marble counter beside the sink.
The shampoo bottle is still there. Empty. Same as it was yesterday.
I left it on purpose. Let him stew. Not that he noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t care enough to throw another insult.
His fiancée—if that’s what I should call her—had left sometime yesterday, heels clacking arrogantly down the hallway, but not without slicing a final look in my direction. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes wanted me gutted.
I pull the old bottle out, drop it in the bin with a little too much satisfaction, and reach for the new one.
As I start unpacking the rest—bar soap, aftershave, cologne—I mutter under my breath.
“I hope this soap itches you to death.”
My fingers tighten around the bar as I toss it into the dish.
“Hope it makes your skin peel. Just a little.”
“Say that again?”
I freeze.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I look up—slowly.
Cristofano stands in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, the crisp white fabric still clinging slightly to his damp skin.
His sleeves are rolled carelessly to the elbows.
His collar hangs open, revealing the lean slope of his chest and a clean scar etched beneath his ribs.
His dark trousers sit low on his hips, and his hair—wet and swept back—still drips faintly against his temples.
His eyes are locked on mine.
I blink once and manage a breath.
“I—I was singing,” I stammer, voice brittle. “Just…humming. To myself.”
“Sounded like a curse.”
I lower my gaze immediately. “No, sir.”
I move to leave, hands suddenly too full of bottles.
But before I make it to the doorway, I feel his hand close around my upper arm. He doesn’t pull, just holds me there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Help me with something,” he says, voice low and even.
I nod and follow.