Chapter 11 – Serafina #2
He leads me to the edge of his dressing area, where a fresh suit jacket hangs on a valet. He picks a tie and hands it to me.
I take it slowly. My fingers are cold.
“Put it on me,” he says.
I loop it over his neck, keeping distance, trying to knot it with as little contact as possible.
But he steps in. Closes the space between us.
One hand lands lightly on my waist and pulls me in.
My chest brushes his. My fingers freeze mid-loop.
I can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. His breath is warm against my temple.
“What did we do?” he asks, voice low. “That night. When I was drunk and you took me back here.”
I swallow. My eyes flick up. He’s watching me. Why is he asking me this now?
I lie. “Nothing.”
The hand at my waist doesn’t move. Then, without warning, he lifts me.
Both hands under my thighs.
“Wait—” I gasp, breath catching. “Put me down!” I snap, struggling against his grip, but his hold is solid—iron wrapped in heat.
He doesn't answer.
Cristofano strides across the room like I weigh nothing, ignoring the tray, ignoring my fists pressing into his chest.
The bed looms.
I kick.
My knee catches him hard in the thigh—he grunts, but it only fuels him. The next moment, I’m slammed onto the mattress with a jolt that knocks the breath from my lungs.
He’s on me before I can roll away—hovering, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my hip with possessive force. His weight doesn’t crush me, but it commands the space around me.
His eyes burn into mine, jaw clenched.
“You’re my maid,” he says, voice low and taut. “In my house. In my room. I own everything in it—including you.”
My heart pounds against my ribs like a warning drum.
His face is inches from mine. His breath—smoke and mint and anger—fans across my cheek.
“Stop pretending you’re better than my attention. Stop acting like you don’t know what you’re doing.” His gaze flickers to my mouth. “Or do the guards get it first?”
I don’t even think.
My hand flies.
The slap rings out. His head jerks slightly to the side, but he doesn’t move away.
I scramble, pushing up, trying to twist out from under him, but he grabs my wrist—then my waist again—and hauls me upright.
I break free just enough to backpedal, my chest heaving, fury and fear burning in equal measure.
I head toward the door—needing to leave before I do something reckless—but his hand closes around my arm again.
He spins me around and presses me back to the wall. Cold plaster at my spine, heat at my front. His arms box me in.
Both of us are breathing hard now.
Staring.
My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “What? The woman who left your bed didn’t please you enough?”
His expression hardens, but his voice doesn’t rise.
“It’s not her I want.”
My lips part. My body is still rigid beneath his.
“I’m just a filthy maid,” I whisper, almost spitting the words. “Beneath you.”
His hand lifts. Fingers curl softly against the side of my neck.
“I don’t care.”
“You’re a piece of shit.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, raw and bitter.
His eyes narrow. But I’m already pushing against him, shoving at his chest with both hands.
His grip loosens, maybe from surprise, maybe from restraint, but I don’t wait for either. I duck out from under his arm, spin toward the door, and run.
Down the hallway. Past the silk-lined walls and the polished sconces and the faint scent of cigars still clinging to the air.
I don’t stop until my hand hits the handle of my room.
I twist, slam it shut behind me, lock it.
I don’t move for a second. I just stand there, palm flat on the door, breath jagged.
The mattress is a few steps away. I cross the room and sit down slowly. The weight of everything I’m holding finally pulls my shoulders low.
My hands rest in my lap, still shaking.
I stare at the wall for a beat too long.
Then I reach beneath the bed, under the loose floorboard where I keep the photo.
The picture is creased at the corners, the edges softened by touch. My little girl’s smile beams back at me—her cheeks round, curls bouncing, eyes impossibly bright.
I clutch it to my chest and walk to the bathroom. The light is dim. I don’t turn it up.
I press my back to the wall, then sink down, sliding until I’m sitting against the cool tile.
I lift the picture. Press my lips to it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
My voice cracks.
“I’m sorry I made you the child of that man.”
The photo trembles slightly in my hands.
I sniff, breathe in deep, and press it to my chest.
“I’m going to end him,” I whisper. “I’m going to rip his empire out from under him and leave him bleeding with nothing.”
My heartbeat begins to slow—not from calm, but from rage.
It’s been three weeks. Of watching. Cleaning. Playing quiet.
No one would question it now. Not if I stepped into his office. I’ve been the one dusting it. Arranging the files. Stocking the minibar. Bringing in coffee.
I slide the photo carefully back between the pages of the old book where I hide it, beneath the bed frame.
Tonight, I make my first move.
****
Black, fitted shirt, my softest shoes. tray. Nothing that makes noise when I walk.
The house shifts with its night noises—footsteps distantly rotating, laughter muffled from the guard room two floors down, a door shutting gently near the west wing.
I count to three hundred after the last sound fades. Then I rise.
The hallway outside is dark. One low light buzzes near the landing, casting long shadows against the wall.
I move like I’ve practiced. I pass two guards near the courtyard hallway. One of them nods. I nod back. We are co-workers, I am just doing my job like they are doing theirs, so they think.
Just a maid doing end-of-night checks.
Cristofano’s office is on the second floor, nestled in the east wing behind double walnut doors with a brass keyhole. I cleaned it three times this week—under supervision once, alone twice. He never locked it at night. Too arrogant. Too secure in his control.
Tonight, that helps me.
I reach the doors and try the handle.
It gives. I slip in.
And close it behind me.
The only light comes from the crack in the window curtain where the moon slices in silver through dust motes. The walls are lined in books and weapon plaques. His desk sits near the center. I move to the filing cabinet first. It's locked.
But the drawer beneath his desk isn’t.
I kneel, slowly, and slide it open.
My fingers ghost across the pages of a thick leather-bound ledger.
The contents are coded, but I’ve seen enough reports to know the shape of movement: shipments, dates, abbreviations for ports.
It’s not enough to prove anything yet, but it's a start.
I look at the laptop and I am about to open it when I hear it.
A low sound. A groan—long, drawn out.
I go still.
Not the creak of floorboards or the sweep of passing feet. Not even muffled voices.
A human sound. I set the ledger down soundlessly and rise, breath shallow.
Another sound follows. A breath. Then a faint moan.
My pulse flinches. I step around the desk, slow and soft, letting my footsteps melt into the carpet.
I edge past the mounted liquor cabinet and angle toward the darker corner of the office, the one near the tall back wingchair facing the window.
The moonlight spills just enough to outline the furniture, but not who’s sitting in it.
Another soft groan. This one is unmistakable.
I squint through the dark.
Cristofano.
He’s seated. Slouched back. His head tilted up, eyes half-closed, jaw tight. His left hand is gripping the chair arm. The right is stroking his–
Oh God.
I curse under my breath. “Shit.”
He’s touching himself. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t hear me.
But I do not wait to find out how long that luck holds.
I step back, heel first. Then another. No creaks, no noise.
But then—his voice.
“Stop right there.”