Chapter 13 – Serafina
Bellarosa Estate – Cristofano’s Office
The first thing I register is heat.
Heavy, slow-breathing warmth at my back, an arm curved possessively across my hip, anchoring me in place.
The blanket draped over us is thick. The room is dark and quiet. His office smells like cologne, old paper, and now…us.
I blink slowly, staring into the muted shape of the sofa’s backrest.
My skin is bare beneath the blanket. Naked. The ache between my thighs is enough to remind me that last night wasn’t a dream. Not a nightmare either.
It happened.
I shift—carefully—lifting his arm from my body inch by inch until I can slip free. His breathing deepens slightly but stays even. I sit up, pressing a palm into the sofa to steady myself.
Cristofano doesn’t move.
I gather my clothes silently, slipping into the soft cotton of my shirt, smoothing my skirt down over my thighs. My hands are quick, practiced. No wasted motion.
I glance at the desk.
The laptop sits closed, untouched since last night.
Not for long.
From the hidden slit sewn into the inside of my waistband, I slide out the flash drive Tony gave me. Sleek. Matte black. Built to bypass logins, encrypted passwords, and even a timed security screen. Insert and wait. That’s all I need to do.
I cross to the desk. The laptop clicks open. The screen glows to life.
I insert the drive.
It whirs once—barely audible—and then begins.
Lines of code flicker. Files begin to duplicate, folder by folder. Financial documents. Shipment logs. Names I recognize. Others I don’t.
Cristofano shifts on the couch.
I freeze.
My heartbeat slams hard in my chest. The upload bar crawls past 86%.
His breathing catches, then steadies again. He’s still asleep.
I keep my hands folded at my stomach, nails digging into my skin. One minute more. Just one.
The bar reaches 100%. The window disappears.
Done.
I remove the flash drive and slide it back into my waistband pocket. The warmth of it against my skin is almost too much.
Now I just need a way to send it.
My eyes flick to the door.
I start toward it.
Then—
He coughs.
I stop.
My breath halts in my throat. I glance over my shoulder. He stirs slightly, one leg shifting beneath the blanket. His hair’s a mess. His chest rises, then falls again.
Still half-asleep.
I walk back to him.
I reach down and pull the edge of the blanket up over him again, covering the sharp lines of his bare torso, the trail of muscle that disappears beneath the sheet.
He doesn’t stir this time.
I linger—just a breath longer than I should.
Then I murmur, under my breath:
“This won’t happen again.”
And I leave.
****
I go to my bathroom immediately after I get to my room. I lock it, twist the bolt, and brace both palms on the edge of the sink.
My reflection stares back at me—flushed, tired, and not as composed as I need it to be.
I reach beneath my waistband and pull out the flash drive. It’s still warm. I grip it tighter and sit on the closed toilet lid, opening the small mirrored cabinet above the sink.
My comms device is buried behind a stack of cotton pads in a sealed case marked sanitary napkins—just in case anyone ever checked.
I pull it out and tap the activation switch.
A tiny screen flickers to life.
One number pre-programmed.
I press it.
Static. Then a click.
“Serafina?”
Tony’s voice.
It always grounds me.
“I’ve got the files,” I whisper. “I'm secure. The drive worked.”
“Good,” he says. “Now listen closely. There’s a small circular ridge near the bottom of the drive—press it. Hold for three seconds.”
I press it. A small green LED lights up, blinking once, then twice.
“Transfer signal's live,” Tony says. “I’m pulling it remotely.”
I swallow. “Is it enough?”
There’s a pause on his end. I hear him moving, maybe pacing. Papers being lifted.
“I’ll go through it. If it’s as good as what you say…we might finally have a shot.”
My throat tightens.
“So…” I ask, quietly, “can I leave now?”
Another pause.
“I need to verify it first,” he says. “Don’t move until I give the all-clear.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Understood.”
The call ends.
I stare down at the device until the screen fades to black.
I slide it back into the cabinet, beneath the stack of cotton pads again, and close the door. My reflection returns. She doesn’t look relieved. Just…frayed at the edges.
I turn back to my room. I lower myself onto the edge of the bed and fold my arms around my stomach.
I can’t call Bianca. I can’t check in with my mother. Not while the mission is active. No traces. No chances.
My fingers clench tighter around the hem of my skirt.
She’ll be okay. Nonna will keep her safe. Happy.
She doesn’t need to know what her mother did last night. Or why.
Cristofano’s face flashes in my mind—his mouth on my skin, his voice in the dark, the sound of him when I touched him.
I clench my jaw.
“One night,” I mutter. “That’s all it was.”
I rise.
Straighten my uniform. Tuck my hair back into its clean, neat twist.
And step back into the hallway.
There’s linen to count. Schedules to check. Orders to give.
Because I’m the head maid of Bellarosa Estate.
And no one can know what I just did.
****
I work till it’s late.
My shoes are off, apron folded neatly on the stool by the door. I’ve just reached for the light switch when the knock comes—firm, too steady for a guard.
My heart jolts.
I open the door.
Matteo stands there, calm as ever. Hands in his pockets. Shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.
“The Don wants you,” he says.
My stomach drops.
“I—I didn’t know I was still needed—”
“He didn’t ask.”
He turns and starts walking.
I close the door behind me slowly, silently.
My legs feel cold under my skirt as I follow him down the hall.
Does he know that I stole from him? Did he happen to see me?
No. No, there weren’t cameras in the study. I was careful. I checked twice.
Still…my palm hovers near the inside of my skirt pocket, where my emergency signal button sits tucked under a false seam. One press. That’s all it would take.
One press and Tony would pull me out.
I hesitate. But I keep walking.
This…this is how Isla must have felt. That final night. When she realized something was off, but didn’t run fast enough.
Matteo says nothing as we climb the last flight of stairs. Just leads me to Cristofano’s private wing. He stops at the door and gestures with a chin nod.
I inhale through my nose, slow and shallow.
He doesn’t follow. Just walks away.
I face the door.
Hand trembling slightly, I knock once. Then open it.
Cristofano is sitting in an armchair by the fireplace.
He looks up, but doesn’t speak.
A cigarette burns between his fingers.
“Come,” he says.
My feet carry me forward even as my gut twists.
I walk slowly, each step controlled.
The tip of my finger hovers just above the SOS button inside my skirt.
If he turns around and accuses me, if he shows me proof—video, a trace, anything—I’ll press it.
But he doesn’t. He stands.
Walks to the far end of the room.
Then stops in front of a door I hadn’t noticed before.
Without looking back, he says, “Go inside.”
His voice is cool. My throat tightens.
I take one step.
Two.
The door creaks open.
I step inside.
He follows.
The room smells like antiseptic and old leather.
The lighting is low. One wall is lined with shelves of thick books. In the center of the room, beneath a low chandelier, is a wide hospital bed—no, not a bed. A reclining medical chair.
And seated in it, upright and alert, is an older man with graying hair, sharp features, and eyes that gleam with suspicion.
He turns his head as we enter, his voice cutting immediately through the air.
“You rascal,” he snaps at Cristofano. “What is this?”
Cristofano exhales smoke.
“She’s the woman I want to marry.”
The words land like a slap. I stop breathing.
My jaw parts slowly—silent.
What?