Chapter 23 – Serafina
Bellarosa Estate
Cristofano doesn’t put me down until we’re inside his room. I can still feel his heart hammering against my side. His arms are firm around me, but his hold is careful, as though I might shatter.
He sets me on the bed, and I notice the faint tremor in his hands before he turns away. The drawer of his nightstand screeches open. A small black case lands beside me, the sharp smell of antiseptic following as he flips it open.
“Does it hurt?” His voice is low, almost tentative.
I shake my head, though my elbow throbs from the impact. He crouches in front of me, dipping gauze into disinfectant, his gray eyes trained on my skin with a focus that’s almost…reverent. When the cold sting touches the scrape, I flinch, and his jaw tightens.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer now, as if the word might soothe the burn.
I watch him work—broad shoulders bent toward me, fingers steady as they secure the bandage. He’s not the man I’ve studied from a distance. Not the judge, the executioner, the ruthless Bellarosa heir. This version…this man is gentle. And it’s dangerous how much my heart notices.
I’d done it on purpose. The slip near the ledge. I wanted to see if he’d catch me. I wanted proof that my identity was still safe, and I wanted to know if he’d reach for me. I expected coldness. Indifference. I didn’t expect this.
His thumb brushes over my skin in a lingering pass. My pulse jumps. I hate the way my body leans into the touch. I hate the way my resolve trembles.
Before I can stop myself, I lean forward and press my lips to his.
He stills, shocked, the antiseptic-soaked gauze hanging forgotten in his hand. His eyes search mine, almost like he’s trying to make sense of what just happened.
“Make love to me,” I whisper, voice trembling.
He freezes. His jaw works, a flicker of something tight in his eyes, His hands twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to touch me and hold back at the same time.
I step closer, close enough to feel the heat of him, and slide my hands up his chest. His skin is warm under my palms, taut muscle shifting beneath.
I grab the hem of his shirt and tug it upward.
He catches my wrists for a second, eyes searching mine.
I take the gauze and box from him and place them on the side table.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low, husky, like he’s not sure if he wants the answer to be yes or no.
“Yes,” I breathe, firmer this time. “More sure than anything.”
He lets go, and I pull his shirt over his head, baring his chest. My fingers skim across the hard lines of his pecs, down the ridges of his stomach. He’s beautiful—broad shoulders, strong arms, that trail of hair that dips below his waistband.
I sink to my knees in front of him, not breaking eye contact, and undo his pants.
The zipper rasps loudly in the silence, and then I push them down, along with his briefs.
His cock springs free, standing hard against his stomach.
I draw in a sharp breath at the sight of it.
My pussy throbs in response, slickness pooling between my thighs.
He shifts, uncertain, almost as if he wants to pull his pants back up. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I cut him off, my voice fierce. “I need you.”
I stand again, and this time it’s my turn.
My hands go to the thin straps of my sundress, easing them down my shoulders.
The fabric slips lower, baring the swell of my breasts, nipples already hard.
His eyes drop to them, widening slightly, and I feel heat lick across my skin at the intensity of his gaze.
I push the gown lower, past my waist, letting it pool at my feet. I’m bare now, every inch of me exposed to him. My breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath, my stomach tightening under his hungry stare. I can feel how wet I am already, thighs damp, pussy aching for him.
He reaches out as if he can’t stop himself, his palm brushing the curve of my breast, thumb sliding over my nipple. The touch makes me shiver, a gasp escaping before I can bite it back. His other hand moves to my hip, holding me steady as though he’s grounding himself as much as me.
“God,” he whispers, almost to himself. His cock jerks, thick and heavy between us, and I know he’s fighting the edge of restraint.
I curl my hand around him, wrapping my fingers around his shaft. The heat of him throbs in my palm, slick pre-cum smearing across my skin as I stroke him once, slow and deliberate. His head drops back, a guttural sound rumbling from his chest, and my pussy clenches hard in response.
I step closer, pressing my naked body to his—breasts flattening against his chest, nipples dragging over his skin. Our heat mingles, his cock pressed against my belly, twitching as if begging to be inside me.
“I want you. Don’t make me wait.”
His breath shudders against my lips. His hands slide down my back, gripping my ass, holding me tight. His cock nudges my stomach again, and I know he’s as undone as I am.
I guide him back toward the bed, my hunger sharp and raw now, the storm inside me breaking open.
I climb onto the mattress, straddling his lap. The heat of him presses against me instantly, the thick head of his cock nudging my belly as I settle against him. My breasts brush his chest, my nipples grazing his skin, and I shiver at the sensation.
He starts to say something—maybe another warning, another hesitation—but I silence him with a kiss, tasting his lips. When I pull back, I’m already panting, my body lit up and begging.
My hand finds him again, wrapping around the thick length of his cock. He’s hot and slick in my grip, veins throbbing under my fingers as I stroke him slowly, deliberately, smearing his pre-cum over the swollen head. His groan rumbles low in his chest, his hips jerking up into my hand.
With my other hand, I reach between my thighs, parting my pussy. I can feel how wet I am already, my folds slippery, my clit swollen and throbbing. My fingertips brush against my own slickness, and I gasp at how sensitive I am, my body aching to be filled.
I guide the blunt head of his cock down, pressing it against me.
The first contact makes me shudder—hot hardness against my soaked slit.
I rub him through my folds, coating him in my wetness, sliding him up and down, letting the thick head bump against my clit.
My thighs tremble at the shock of pleasure, and a broken moan slips out.
He grips my hips like he’s holding himself back. “Fuck…are you sure?” he rasps, his voice tight, strangled.
I lean forward, bringing my mouth to his ear, whispering fiercely, “I’ve never been more sure. I need you inside me. Now.”
I angle his cock to my entrance, the thick head pressing against my opening.
The pressure alone makes me gasp, my pussy clenching around nothing, desperate for him.
I sink down slowly, inch by inch, stretching around his thickness.
The burn is sharp, hot, but it’s swallowed by the rush of pleasure as he fills me.
My nails dig into his shoulders as I push lower, taking more of him. My pussy squeezes tight around his cock, pulling him in, wetness dripping down my thighs. The stretch is overwhelming, making me moan, raw and helpless against his throat.
When I finally sink all the way down, his cock buried to the hilt inside me, my whole body trembles.
My clit presses against the base of him, throbbing with every beat of my heart.
I sit there for a moment, panting, chest heaving, my breasts pressed against him, nipples hard and aching against his skin.
The fullness is dizzying—his cock pulsing inside me, my pussy fluttering around him, my stomach tight with hunger. I roll my hips, and the friction makes me cry out, the sound breaking free before I can stop it.
I grip his face in both hands, forcing his eyes to mine. “Feel me,” I whisper, desperate, fierce. “I’m yours. All of me. Now fuck me.”
****
The sunlight spilling through the heavy drapes is the first thing I notice when I wake.
The second is the empty space beside me.
My fingers press into the cool linen where Cristofano should be, and something tightens in my chest before I can stop it. I inhale, reminding myself exactly why I’m here.
A flash of white catches my eye on the nightstand. I sit up, reaching for the thick sheet of stationery. His handwriting is bold:
Prepare for your wedding gown fitting.
Beneath it, in smaller script: Don’t keep them waiting.
My pulse kicks. I smooth the paper flat to stop my hands from trembling.
A knock at the door jolts me.
I slide off the bed just as the door opens a crack and one of the maids peeks in, head bowed. “You are needed,” she says softly.
I nod, managing a faint smile as she retreats. Alone again, I glance around the room. His scent still lingers. I lift my arm and sniff discreetly. Yeah…definitely need a wash.
My fingers sweep over my cheeks, patting away the last traces of sleep. My heartbeat is annoyingly quick as I walk down the hallway.
The maid steps aside, gesturing me forward.
A tall, slender woman in black looks up from a table cluttered with swatches and sketches. A tape measure hangs around her neck like a piece of jewelry, and her smile is equal parts polite and assessing.
“Ah, you must be the bride,” she says, her Italian accent warm but precise. She steps closer, her eyes scanning me. “I’m Vescari, your designer. Cristofano described you, but….” Her smile deepens. “He did not do you justice.”
I offer a small, practiced smile. “It’s…a pleasure.” The words feel careful in my mouth.
She circles me slowly, her gaze moving from my shoulders to my shoes, calculating without even touching the tape. “We’ll find something perfect for your frame,” she says with quiet certainty. “May I?” She gestures toward the nearest mannequin.
I nod.
She guides me toward a gown with delicate lace sleeves and beadwork that glitters under the light. “This one—for your skin tone? Perhaps. But ivory—” She points toward another, sleeker cut with a faint sheen, her voice lifting slightly. “—ivory will make you unforgettable.”
Her words wash over me, and for a dangerous moment, I let myself drift—imagining what it might be like if this were real. If I were just a woman about to marry a man she loved. If I didn’t have a target on my back and a plan to destroy my groom.
I blink hard and pull myself back. It’s not real. None of this is real.
“I’m fine with anything,” I say lightly.
Vescari pauses, surprised by my detachment, but recovers with a smile. “Then perhaps…this one.” She touches the first dress in the row, a gown of soft ivory silk with delicate beadwork across the bodice.
“I’ll try it,” I answer.
Two maids step forward, their hands careful but efficient as they help me change. Layers of fabric settle over my skin like whispers. The way the skirt pools around me—it’s impossible not to feel…different. Almost like I belong here.
Signora Vescari gasps softly. “Perfetta.”
The sound of clapping breaks the spell.
I turn toward it, my stomach sinking even before I see her, Alessandra Morelli walking toward me with eyes gleaming.
“You look…beautiful,” she says, voice honeyed but heavy with insult.
I lower my gaze, letting my shoulders curve in practiced humility. “Grazie, Signora,” I murmur, keeping my tone soft, obedient—just a maid grateful for a rare kindness.
Her lips twitch in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She steps closer, her perfume a sharp contrast to the faint scent of pressed linen in the room. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear. “Cristofano will be mine in due time.”
Something hot and sharp unfurls in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I straighten, meeting her gaze head-on, and let a small, dangerous smile curve my lips. “Chasing after a man who doesn’t want you?” I say, voice quiet but cutting.
Her eyes flare. “He left me because you turned his head,” she snaps, her composure fracturing.
“I highly doubt that,” I reply, the words slipping out like a challenge.
The slap comes fast, the crack echoing off the walls. My cheek stings, heat blooming across my skin, but I refuse to flinch.
“What is happening here?”
The thunder in Cristofano’s voice makes us both turn. He stands in the doorway, Matteo at his shoulder, his steel-gray eyes dark with fury.
He closes the distance in long, decisive strides, his gaze sweeping over my face before locking on the red mark blooming on my cheek. “Are you all right?” he asks, softer now.
I nod once, but he’s already turning toward Alessandra. “Get her out of here.”
“I can walk,” she says, lifting her chin. “Happy married life.”
Her heels click away, the sound fading down the corridor as Matteo follows her out.
Cristofano’s attention returns to me, and his expression softens. “You look…pretty,” he says, almost as if the word isn’t enough, but it’s all he can manage in the moment.
Despite myself, I smile, and he steps forward, wrapping me in a hug that smells like him—warm spice and something darker, something dangerous. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my hair.
For a heartbeat, I wish he weren’t so perfect in moments like this.
When he releases me, I murmur an excuse and slip back to my room. The moment the door closes, I head straight for the bathroom, pulling out my hidden earpiece to contact Tony. Static answers me—no signal. My pulse kicks up.
I glance down at my wrist. The slim watch glints under the light. Marcello Vitale’s watch. My reminder.
It’ll be over soon.