Chapter 22 – Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate
The kitchen smells like fresh coffee and toasted bread, which makes the morning almost tolerable. Matteo’s already at the long wooden table, one leg stretched out, his fingers curled around a mug like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
I slide into the chair beside him. “You’re up early.”
Matteo doesn’t even glance at me before saying, “The workers are gossiping.”
I raise a brow. “About?”
His mouth twists like the answer tastes bitter. “That you were outside, waiting for the maid yesterday.”
I shrug, reaching for the steaming pot and pouring my own cup. “And?”
“And”—he sighs, leaning back— “I’m asking what the hell you want me to do next.”
I take a sip, thinking. “Have the signals blocked in the mansion. Every device. I don’t want her talking to her people until she and I…sort things out.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow. “And if she decides she doesn’t want to marry you after all this?”
“She’s already said yes,” I remind him, meeting his stare over the rim of my mug.
Matteo shakes his head slowly. “Only because she wants to betray you.”
“She’s not betraying me,” I say, though my tone is more stubborn than convincing.
“She’s confused. But when she understands—when she knows I’m the father of her child, and that I love her”—I set the mug down, the ceramic hitting the table with a muted thud— “she’ll change her mind. I’ll work to make her love me.”
Matteo doesn’t flinch, but his voice hardens. “My job is to protect the Black Book. If she touches it, I’ll kill her. On the spot.”
I don’t answer. My jaw works as I look past him, out the window to the gardens where the morning fog is just lifting. Finally, I push away from the table. “Clear my schedule for the next few days.”
Matteo exhales through his nose, muttering something that sounds like delusional bastard, but he stands. “Fine.”
****
The door clicks softly behind me as I step back into my room. Early light filters through the curtains, casting gold over the bed. She’s still there—Serafina—curled on her side, the sheet tangled around her waist, bare skin glowing warm in the morning haze.
For a moment, I just stand there. Watching. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her breathing slow and steady. My chest tightens.
I lean down, brushing my lips gently over her temple. The contact stirs her eyes, which blink open, hazy with sleep. She stretches lazily, the movement pulling the sheet higher up her chest.
“Morning,” I murmur, letting my gaze linger on her face. “Get ready. We’ve got a date today.”
She blinks again, still half-lost in sleep, then nods obediently.
That small, wordless gesture sends a strange, warm satisfaction through me.
I picture it—her hand in mine, our daughter laughing between us, a house far from this world where she doesn’t have to pretend.
Where I make it up to her for all of it.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, bare toes brushing the carpet. The sheet slips, and she grabs it quickly, clutching it to her chest. I smile faintly at the sight.
“I’ll look away,” I say, turning my back to her. She hesitates, then rises, the quiet patter of her steps crossing to the bathroom.
Just before the door clicks shut, I catch the soft sound of her running—almost skipping—inside. My lips curve without me meaning to. Cute.
Even if she doesn’t see it yet…she’s mine. And I’ll make sure she knows it.
****
She’s quiet beside me as we follow the narrow path between the trees. Her sundress is the soft color of pale lemons, light enough that the breeze toys with the hem, and her hair is loose for once in chestnut ribbons. She doesn’t let go of my hand.
The path opens into a clearing. The blanket is already laid out, corners weighted with baskets and platters—prosciutto draped over thin paper, wedges of pecorino, fresh bread, figs split open, and a bottle of Chianti breathing in the center.
She stops. “You…did this?”
I watch the surprise bloom on her face. “Do you like it?”
A faint grin tugs her lips. “It’s beautiful.”
We sit. She tucks her dress modestly under her legs. I pour the wine, my eyes drifting to the way she studies the spread as if she’s afraid to disturb it. She takes a sip and sets the glass down with care.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say.
She glances up, then tilts her head, a slow smile forming. “Why don’t you go first?”
It’s an artful deflection. I lean back on my palms, letting the silence stretch as I break a piece of bread.
“I didn’t have much of a childhood. Every year was about surviving someone else’s attempt to end us.
My mother was sick for as long as I can remember…
she died when I was seventeen. My father…
he’s still alive, but weaker now. Back then, he stood like a wall between me and the world.
When his heart failed two years later, I was nineteen and running everything. ”
I glance at her. She’s listening—really listening—the soft furrow between her brows deepening as she chews slowly, her gaze fixed on me instead of her plate.
“That’s a lot,” she says finally, voice low. “You were still a boy.”
I shrug, tearing another piece of bread. “Boys don’t last long in my world.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat longer, the green flecked with gold catching the late sun. “You’ve been through a lot,” she murmurs, and there’s something in her tone…not pity, exactly. Something softer. “You’re…quite the hero.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, but I don’t answer. Instead, I pour her more wine, watching the way her fingers curl around the stem and wondering what it would take for her to tell me something real.
I lean in, elbows on my knees, watching her. “What about you?”
For the smallest fraction of a second, something flickers in her eyes, but the rest of her stays maddeningly calm. She even tilts her head, like she’s about to answer.
Before she can, my phone buzzes. I ignore it.
It buzzes again, sharper this time, and she gestures to it with her glass. “Take the call. I’ll…entertain myself.”
She rises, the sundress swaying against her legs, and takes her wine with her. I watch her walk away, slow, deliberate steps toward the edge of the clearing. The ache in my chest surprises me; I don’t want her too far out of reach.
I swipe the screen. “What?”
“It’s Matteo,” comes the voice on the other end. “Shipment’s here. I need your sign-off before distribution—”
I’m already scanning the clearing while he talks. “Handle it. You don’t need me for—”
A sharp yell slices through the air.
My head whips around. She’s not where she was. Instead—
Serafina is tipping backward, arms flailing, the glass of wine flying from her fingers in a red arc. Behind her, nothing but the sudden drop of a ledge.
“Elia!”
I’m on my feet before Matteo can say another word, phone forgotten in the grass, my pulse slamming against my ribs.
The phone is gone—somewhere in the grass, maybe still connected to Matteo, but I don’t care. My focus narrows to the sight in front of me.
She’s dangling over the drop.
One foot is braced awkwardly on the very lip of the ledge, the other scrabbling against crumbling earth. Her fingers are dug into a jut of rock, knuckles white. The slope beneath her falls steep into a bed of jagged stone and water rushing far below.
“Elia!” My voice cracks, the name ripped from my throat.
Her head whips toward me, eyes wide, hair whipping in the breeze. “C–Cristofano—” Her voice is shaking so hard it barely reaches me.
I’m already on my knees at the edge, arm outstretched. “Give me your hand!”
She doesn’t move. The wind roars between us, and for a second I see the calculation in her eyes—hesitation, fear…maybe something else. My pulse pounds harder.
“Don’t think, just reach!” My voice is sharp, desperate. The dirt under her foot gives way an inch, and she gasps, clutching the rock tighter. “Elia—trust me.”
Her lip trembles. She’s shaking now, her whole body trembling from strain and terror. “I can’t—”
“You can!” I’m close enough now that I can see the tears on her cheeks, the way her shoulders jerk with each sob. My own chest feels like it’s caving in. “Look at me. I’m not letting you go. Do you hear me? Not now, not ever.”
Another inch of earth breaks away. I lean farther, feeling my own footing threaten to give, and my hand is just there—just within her reach. “Please…trust me.”
Her breath comes in ragged pulls. Then—finally—her fingers lift from the rock, shaking violently as she stretches toward me.
The moment her skin touches mine, I clamp down hard and yank. My other hand closes around her wrist, and I pull with everything I have. She scrapes against the edge, a cry tearing from her throat as the cliff fights to keep her.
And then—she’s in my arms, slamming into my chest so hard the breath leaves me. We collapse backward onto the grass, her small frame crushed against me as I wrap my arms around her like a vice.
She’s gasping, nails digging into my shirt, her heartbeat wild against my ribs. My own breath comes uneven, but I hold her tighter, burying my face in her wet hair. “I can’t lose you,” I murmur, over and over, the words raw in my throat. “I can’t lose you.”
Her sobs shake both of us, but I don’t let go—not for a second.