Chapter 14 – Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate – Medical Room
The words are still in the air.
She’s the woman I want to marry.
My father stares at me from his chair, his expression a cross between disbelief and insult. His dark brows tighten, and his mouth curls around his disapproval before he even speaks.
He gestures with one trembling hand toward Serafina.
“The maid?” he says slowly. “Really? Is this a joke?”
I take a breath.
Then I lower myself to one knee on the floor.
I fold my hands in front of me. Not for show—just something to stop them from trembling.
“I’ve never disobeyed you,” I say. “Not once. I’ve lived for this family. I’ve upheld your name. I’ve never asked for anything.”
His eyes narrow. His chest rises with a slow inhale.
“But this…” I say, voice quieter now, “She’s the one thing I want. I want to marry her. On the Blue Moon.”
His mouth twitches. For a moment, he says nothing.
Then he leans slightly forward, pointing at me with one aged, shaking finger.
“What about Alessandra? She’s beautiful, poised. Her family supports us. Isn’t that good enough?”
My voice hardens. “My heart wants what it wants.”
His mouth opens again—but the words are cut short.
Serafina suddenly yanks me upright by the elbow, and before I can stop her, she shoves my head down again—forcing me into a full bow before my father.
She bows too, deeply, her voice soft but fast, like she’s trying to clean up after a crime scene.
“Forgive him, sir,” she says. “The Don isn’t in his right mind. He’s…he’s been running a fever.”
She turns and plucks the cigarette from my lips like it personally offended her, stubs it out in the tray beside the chair, and bows again.
“I’m so sorry for this embarrassment. Please, he needs rest.”
She tries to steer me toward the door, her grip on my arm surprisingly firm for someone her size.
But my father’s voice stops her.
“Wait.”
We both stop.
He lifts one heavy hand and waves at her, eyes narrowing with scrutiny. “What’s your name, girl?”
Serafina lifts her head just slightly.
“Elia,” she says, voice sweet and even. “Elia Rosetti, sir.”
I nearly choke on a laugh. I can’t help it. The way she’s selling it—the soft breath, the eyes lowered just so. She’s a terrifyingly good liar.
My father doesn’t laugh.
He looks between us. Then fixes his gaze on her.
“Do you want him?”
Serafina doesn’t miss a beat. “No, sir.”
His eyes scan her from head to foot.
“Well,” he says, “I don’t think you’re good enough to marry my son. You’re a lowly maid.”
“But,” he adds, voice gruff but not unkind, “you can always prove me wrong.”
He leans back in his chair with a wheeze and waves one hand.
“All I want is a wife on the Blue Moon. I don’t care who.”
He looks at me.
“Now get out. I need a nap.”
He snaps his fingers, and the nurse steps forward from the shadows, already preparing the sedative.
She bows low once more, grabs me by the arm again, and drags me from the room like I’m some fevered lunatic.
And maybe I am.
Because even with my father’s rejection echoing in my ears, I’m smiling.
The second the door shuts behind us, she spins on me.
Her hands shove against my chest—not enough to move me, but enough to snap the air between us like a whip.
Her voice is low and furious.
“What is wrong with you?”
I grin, still feeling the rush from what just happened. “Is that how you thank someone for saving you from a maid’s life forever?”
She narrows her eyes and hisses, “You think this is funny?”
I shrug. “A little.”
She steps closer—just close enough—and then stomps on my foot. Hard.
“Shit!” I hiss, hopping back.
She crosses her arms. “Do you have a death wish?”
I chuckle through the sting, rubbing my foot. “Maybe. Last night I almost died.”
That quiets her.
She coughs, turning red.
Then her face shifts—serious now, and something close to guilty creeps into her eyes.
“I’m sorry about that night,” she says quietly. “It was…wrong. I shouldn’t have—especially with you being engaged.”
I watch her carefully.
Then I shake my head.
“I’m not engaged.”
Her brow furrows. “But the other woman—”
“Alessandra?” I cut in, voice flat. “My father’s pick. One of his many political moves. I never agreed to anything.”
Her eyes soften. I step forward.
I reach up slowly and run a hand through the back of her hair, my fingers brushing the nape of her neck.
Her breath catches.
“I want you,” I say softly.
She closes her eyes for a second. “I’m not a toy.”
I nod. “I know.”
I want to ask her then—why don’t you remember me?—but the words get caught on something fragile in my throat.
Instead, I lean down and grab her by the waist.
She gasps as I throw her over my shoulder.
“Cristofano!” she shouts, slapping at my back.
She kicks once. Then again. But I’m laughing now, steady on my feet.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
“Taking you on our first date.”
****
Melbourne – Night Carnival, City Streets
The city smells like sugar and grease, fried within an inch of its life.
And she’s walking beside me like she wants the pavement to open up and swallow her whole.
I bite back a grin. Her arms are crossed.
Her mouth is tight. But her eyes—God, her eyes—don’t know where to land.
There are too many colors, too many people, too much life.
And none of it makes sense for a girl like her who folds towels in silence and keeps her voice soft like she’s been trained to disappear.
But she’s here.
With me.
At midnight. In a street pulsing with carnival lights.
I glance sideways.
“I told you,” I say. “It’s a date.”
She snorts, barely. “I didn’t agree to that.”
I grab her hand before she can backpedal and pull her toward the first food stand glowing under a red tarp and rows of bare bulbs.
The man behind the counter is dunking dough balls in syrup, then rolling them in powdered sugar. The scent hits hard.
I buy two.
Hand her one.
She stares at it like it’s going to bite her.
“No thanks,” she says flatly.
I raise a brow. “Eat it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Eat it, Elia.”
She gives me the side-eye, mutters something under her breath—probably a curse—and takes a bite.
Then she freezes. Just slightly.
Her lashes flutter once.
I know that look.
“You like it,” I say, grinning.
She scowls, licking sugar off her bottom lip. “It’s fine.”
“Uh huh.”
She takes another bite.
And then, almost too quiet to hear, she says, “Bianca would love this.”
I stop walking. Turn toward her.
“Who’s Bianca?”
Her body stiffens like a rope yanked taut.
She recovers fast. “A friend.”
My gaze sharpens.
A friend. Right.
She won’t look at me. Bianca? Was that a friend? I make a mental note to have Matteo look into it. So I lean closer, drop my voice an inch.
“You hiding a lover, Elia? Should I be jealous?”
She scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I laugh.
Not because it’s funny—but because the tension in her is finally, finally, cracking.
I take her wrist and pull her forward again.
We pass another food stall—charcoal-grilled skewers, hot sweet nuts, fried cheese on a stick—and I buy two of everything. She complains once, but eats almost all of it. By the time we hit the edge of the crowd, her shoulders have dropped an inch, and her mouth isn’t pressed in a hard line anymore.
She’s watching. Laughing, even.
I steal a glance at her from the side.
Her face is softer in this light. A little pink from the heat. Her hair’s loose at the sides now, the pins probably slipping out. She has this distracted look as she watches a girl with glitter on her cheeks toss a toy to her dad. I watch her watching.
And I feel a strange pull in my chest.
I don’t know what it is.
But it isn’t quiet.
We find a bench near the edge of the street—half tucked beneath a paper lantern strung between two poles. It flickers slightly.
She sits stiffly at first, still scanning the crowd like someone who doesn’t trust happiness to last. But I hand her the tub of popcorn, sit beside her, and lean back.
I breathe in deep.
“You feel that?” I say, nudging her lightly with my shoulder. “Even the air’s better here.”
She exhales through her nose.
Then nods. “It is.”
I glance sideways.
She’s chewing quietly, head tilted, hair slipping loose down the side of her face. I reach into the tub, pluck a piece, and offer it to her.
She pulls away instinctively.
“No.”
I lean in.
“Yes.”
She tries to turn her head, but I push the kernel toward her mouth until she laughs—just a little—and finally takes it.
I grin.
“See?” I say. “You’re practically a local now.”
She rolls her eyes, grabs another handful from the tub, and pops one in her mouth.
I watch a streak of popcorn sugar—maybe from the kettle corn glaze—smear at the corner of her mouth.
I don’t think. I lean forward. I brush my thumb lightly against her cheek, then lean in and run my tongue over the little smudge at the corner of her lip.
Her body freezes. But she doesn’t pull away.
Our faces are so close now, I can feel her exhale against my mouth.
So I kiss her. Her mouth softens against mine like it’s been waiting all night to be asked.
Her lips taste like sugar and heat. A little salty from the popcorn, soft from everything else.
I kiss her, drawing it out—testing, teasing, waiting to see when she’ll pull away.
She doesn’t. Not even when I do.
I lean back just slightly, giving her a chance to breathe, to hesitate.
But instead—she grabs the front of my shirt, fists curling tight into the fabric, and pulls me back in.
Her mouth crashes into mine this time.
Hungrier.
And now I’m the one stunned.
She kisses like she’s making a decision. Like something broke open inside her, and there’s no going back.
I groan low in my throat, one hand sliding to her hip, the other behind her neck.
“Careful,” I whisper into her mouth. “You keep doing that, and we’ll need to get a room.”
Her lips curl against mine. “Why?” She nips my bottom lip gently before whispering back, “We have the car. We don’t need a room.”
My pulse spikes.
I pull back just enough to look at her face.