Chapter 21 – Serafina
Melbourne – Hollingwood Lodge
Bianca’s little face fills the laptop screen, her paint-stained fingers holding up a lopsided watercolor of a house and a stick-figure family.
“See, Mama? That’s you, me, and Nonna.”
Her voice is so bright, so proud, it hurts.
“That’s beautiful, tesoro.” I smile, even though my throat is tightening. “You’re getting better every week.”
She grins, teeth gapped, and launches into an animated explanation of how she mixed the colors. But my eyes drift to the small clock on the motel wall. My chest squeezes.
“Bianca, sweetheart…Mama has to go soon.”
Her smile falters. “Already?”
I nod, forcing it to look casual. “Yes, baby. But I’ll call again.”
The days since I met Marcello had been spent here, in this anonymous roadside motel booked under my cover name—Elia Rossetti.
Away from Bellarosa eyes, I had stolen hours with my daughter and my mother over endless video calls, trading little updates and stolen laughter.
One night, I fell asleep with the screen still glowing, Bianca’s quiet breathing lulling me like a lullaby.
Now it’s time to go back.
Bianca’s lower lip trembles. “When will you come back for real?”
Her small voice splinters something inside me. “In a few weeks.” I keep my tone steady, promising more than I should. “I swear, Bianca. I’ll be there.”
My mother’s voice cuts in as she lifts Bianca into her arms, her own expression a mix of steel and sorrow. “Keep your promise. She misses you.”
“I miss you too,” I whisper.
Bianca presses her cheek to the screen, as if she could crawl through and into my arms. “Promise?”
I swallow hard. “Promise.”
The call ends. I let my hands rest on the closed laptop, willing myself not to cry.
I pack slowly, folding each item as though precision could keep me from thinking about the drive back to the mansion…and to Cristofano Bellarosa.
For one unguarded second, I picture him on the floor with Bianca, laughing, their matching dark hair falling into their eyes. Her cheeks flushed from play, his rare smile softening the hard lines of his face.
The image warms me—then chills me.
I stop mid-fold, pushing the thought away. That can’t happen. It won’t happen. He’s the monster I came here to destroy.
For a fleeting moment, I think about never going back.
Packing up my life into two bags, boarding a flight to Italy, and walking straight into the arms of the authorities—asking for asylum and protection for me, for Mama, for Bianca.
I have the files I came for. The job’s done.
But then I see Isla’s face. I hear her laugh, cut short. I see the note left for me. I remember the targets that could appear on Bianca’s small back the moment Cristofano realizes what I’ve done.
And Marcello’s voice echoes in my head. If you ruin this for me, I will kill you.
I’m too far gone now.
My hands work automatically, dismantling the special laptop piece by piece—screen, base, drive—until it’s nothing more than harmless parts. I slide each component into its protective wrapping, nestle them into a plain bag, and scrawl a quick note to the local contact Tony arranged:
"For Tony. Secure delivery. Urgent."
The bag goes by the door. My original travel bag, the one I brought to the Bellarosa estate, is zipped up and waiting.
I stand still for a beat, staring at the drab motel wallpaper as I breathe in. Then I turn the knob, step into the corridor, and check out at the front desk like it’s just another day.
In less than a week, it will be over. One way or another.
Outside, the morning air is cool and sharp. I flag down a taxi.
“Bellarosa estate gates,” I tell the driver.
His eyes go wide in the rearview mirror. “What, you tryna get me killed?” he mutters, half-laughing, half-serious. He shakes his head, muttering something in Greek, and hits the gas anyway.
As the city blurs past, I press my forehead to the glass and wonder—for the first time, really wonder—if I’ve completely lost my mind going back there.
****
Bellarosa Estate Gates
The cab rolls to a slow stop in front of the wrought-iron gates. The driver glances at me in the mirror, then names a fare that’s nearly double what it should be.
I blink at him. “That’s—”
He shrugs, one hand drumming on the wheel. “Bellarosa prices. Take it or walk.”
My lips press into a thin line. I slide the notes forward without another word. As soon as they leave my fingers, he snatches them up and peels away so fast the dust kicks at my legs. I’m left standing alone, the imposing silhouette of the gates looming over me.
I inhale slowly. My hand finds my braid, tugging it forward over my shoulder as I smooth down the wrinkles in my dress. My spine straightens, my face softens, and I let my eyes lower—timid, unthreatening, exactly what they expect to see.
The gates swing inward.
“You’re here.”
I turn my head and there he is—Cristofano—dressed in nothing but a dark, fitted T-shirt that makes him look younger, somehow more dangerous in his ease.
He closes the space between us in three long strides, the faint scent of clean soap and tobacco wrapping around me before his arms do. His hands lock across my back, firm and sure, pulling me into the breadth of his chest. I feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing before I hear it.
He dips his head, his nose brushing the side of my hair as he inhales me like he’s been starved of this. “You’re back,” he says against my ear, the words heavy with something I can’t name.
My heart lurches before I remind myself why I left and why I came back.
His arms are iron bands around me, crushing the air from my lungs. I hold my breath, caught between the need to shove him away and the way his warmth sinks into my bones after two days without it.
Then my feet leave the ground.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, fierce but breathless as his shoulder shifts under my ribs.
“I’ve missed you,” Cristofano says, like that explains everything. His voice is low, husky with something that is not just relief.
I push at his chest, wriggling, but his grip doesn’t falter. He walks through the gates with long, unhurried strides, ignoring the weight of my protests. My bag lies forgotten on the gravel. “My bag—Cristofano!”
He doesn’t so much as glance back.
The grand facade of the mansion looms closer, windows glinting gold in the late afternoon light. Maids pause mid-step, trays in hand, eyes wide and whispering behind palms as we pass. Heat climbs my neck, my cheeks—red for all the wrong reasons.
By the time he reaches his room, my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. He sets me down on the bed like I’m made of something fragile, but the imprint of his fingers remains at my waist. I tug my dress into place, smoothing the fabric with sharp, agitated motions, avoiding the intensity of his stare.
He’s smiling. Not the calculating one he wears in business meetings, but something softer, dangerous in its own way. “I prepared a bath for you,” he says, voice like velvet with steel beneath.
My eyes narrow. “Thank you…for making the entire staff look at me like I’ve lost my mind.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there like he’s tasting me without moving an inch. When his eyes meet mine again, they gleam with quiet certainty. “They’ll get used to it,” he murmurs. “You’ll soon be the mistress of this house.”
I force a smile, and he says, “Let’s take a bath.”
****
The bathwater laps against porcelain, warm and scented faintly of bergamot. Steam curls upward in slow, lazy ribbons. His arms are solid bands around me, keeping me anchored against his chest as if letting me go would be unthinkable.
My hair clings damp to my cheeks, plastered there by the heat, and my bare skin is slick beneath the embrace of his muscled forearms. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, lingering, the kiss slow enough to feel deliberate.
“I want to marry you,” Cristofano murmurs, the words vibrating against my skin.
I tip my head just enough to glance at him. “Okay.”
His eyes search my face, surprise flickering in their steel depths. “That’s it? No argument?”
Inside, my answer is a blade: Marry you. Get the Black Book. End you. Return to my child. Forget you and move on. Out loud, my voice is even, almost deferential. “You’re powerful. I’m nothing. Why would I refuse?”
His gaze sharpens, but there’s no anger there—only a strange kind of reverence. “You’re everything.”
I force a smile. “If you say so.”
“You’ll understand it all soon,” he says, thumb stroking the inside of my wrist in a slow, claiming sweep. “We just have to get married and appease my father on the Blue Moon.”
I nod, playing the part. “Whatever you need.”
There’s a pause, a faint tightening of his arms. “Is there anything you need to tell me about yourself?”
Did he already find out about me? My pulse hammers. No way. If he knew, I’d be dead by now.
I make my face a mask. “No.”
His lips brush my throat again. “You feel like heaven,” he says, and his voice is soft enough to almost make me believe it.
His lips brush over the curve of my neck, sending shivers racing down my spine despite the heat.
“Do you miss me?” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, almost daring me to admit it.
I open my mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out—my voice is stolen the second his hand dips lower, sliding under the water, between my thighs. The heat of his palm presses against my pussy, and I gasp, clinging to the edge of the tub.
His fingers stroke me through my folds, teasing, parting me open.
The slickness of the bath makes every glide sharper, every touch magnified until I’m trembling.
My clit throbs under the gentle brush of his thumb, aching for pressure.
My hips jerk against his hand, shamelessly grinding down, begging for more.