Chapter 27 - Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate
Matteo staggers against the wall, clutching his arm where the blank grazed him. His face twists with outrage, and his voice rips through the night.
“Are you out of your mind?” he hisses, veins bulging at his neck. “You shot me!”
My chest heaves as I lower the gun, its weight suddenly unbearable in my hand. The smoke still curls from the barrel. I slip it back into my holster, jaw clenched. “It was a blank.”
Matteo stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. His shirt sleeve is torn, the skin beneath singed. “A blank that almost tore through me. They took the Black Book, Cristo. Do you understand what that means?”
I inhale through my teeth, force myself to meet his gaze. “No, they didn’t. I switched it.”
For the first time tonight, silence cuts between us. Matteo blinks, eyes narrowing.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “The Black Book was moved to the safe house; my father is protecting it. I planned to move it the moment I knew she was after it.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. Admitting it aloud—admitting she was after it—scrapes at my insides. “She has a fake.”
Matteo exhales in a rough laugh, pressing a hand to his chest. Relief flickers across his features. “Madonna.” He shakes his head, then points a finger at me. “You’ll pay for this. I’ll get my revenge for that shot.”
I ignore him. My blood is pounding too loud in my ears, an ache spreading through my chest I can’t shake. “We need to save her.”
Matteo freezes, his relief replaced with disbelief. His jaw drops. “Save her?” His voice sharpens. “Have you completely lost it? That woman betrayed you. She betrayed us. And you want to save her?”
I turn away, running a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots until pain cuts through the storm inside me. My throat is tight when I speak. “Something feels off. She…she accused me of killing her friend.”
Matteo doesn’t move, just studies me with hard, calculating eyes.
I pace, fists clenching. “I showed her the cellar, the cages…. It was supposed to push her, make her open up. But she said she saw a ring.” My voice drops to a whisper. “A ring.”
The image flashes in my mind—the way her face crumbled, her eyes widening with something between rage and grief. I thought it was an act. I wanted it to be an act. But now….
My heart lurches painfully in my chest.
Matteo curses under his breath. “You’re telling me she recognized something down there?”
My voice is raw. “I don’t know what the hell to believe anymore. But if she thinks I killed her friend…then she’s been bleeding for vengeance all this time.”
“Let’s check it out,” he says.
****
The clang of our boots echoes off the iron walls as Matteo and I descend the stairs. There is a knot in my stomach I can’t shake.
We step into the room, cages lining the walls like a gallery of sins. The dim bulbs overhead cast long shadows across steel bars and the grotesque trophies within: knives dulled from use, scraps of bloodstained shirts, broken chains, pieces of men who once thought they could defy us.
Matteo halts, his breath catching. “There,” he mutters.
I follow his gaze.
A small, delicate shape glints faintly on the dusty floor of the third cage. My pulse stutters. I crouch, squinting through the bars. A ring. Silver. Worn smooth at the edges. And there, etched faintly on the inside: YLA.
The initials brand themselves into me like fire.
“What the fuck,” Matteo whispers, crouching beside me. “That’s a woman’s ring.”
I straighten slowly, my hands curling into fists. A woman’s ring doesn’t belong here. Not in this room.
“You know the rules,” I say, my voice low. “We do not torture women. Never. Not once.”
Matteo shakes his head, his face pale in the dim light. “Then what the hell is it doing here?”
I stare at the ring as if it might answer. My chest tightens, that image of her face—Serafina’s broken, accusing eyes—flashing again and again in my mind. I saw her ring in your cage.
Her friend.
I drag in a sharp breath. My thoughts spiral. Did one of my men break the code? Impossible. I’d know. I’d fucking know. Unless—
Matteo looks up at me, realization dawning. “Cristofano….” His voice drops to a whisper. “This was planted.”
I snap my head toward him.
He swallows, his jaw tight. “Someone put it here to make her see it. To make you look guilty.”
The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in. My pulse pounds in my ears. My voice escapes me. “Spies.”
We lock eyes. For the first time in years, Matteo looks unsettled.
****
I sit back in a wooden chair, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled under my chin.
My cigarette burns low, smoke curling like ghosts around my face.
Across from me, two men kneel—guards I’d once trusted.
Now, their shirts are torn, blood seeping through fabric where Matteo’s fists and blades already worked.
It took a few hours to catch them, Marcello’s spies.
A surprise search caught them with foreign Bluetooth receivers.
All this while they had been communicating directly with Marcello.
Matteo stands to my right, rolling his shoulders, his knuckles still stained red. His expression is blank—except for the vein throbbing in his temple.
The men are shaking, their heads bowed, but their voices quaver as they speak.
“It…it was him,” the first stammers, spitting blood to the floor. “The order came from Vitale.”
Marcello. His name coils in my chest like venom.
Matteo’s head snaps up. “What order?”
The second man raises his bruised face, fear flickering in his swollen eyes. “To plant the ring in the cages.” He swallows hard. “And to watch her. The maid.”
Every word hammers through me. My hand clenches around the cigarette until ash drops to the floor.
“When?” Matteo demands, his voice like a whip.
The men flinch in unison. One whispers, “End of last year.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. My jaw locks so tightly my teeth ache. End of last year…before Serafina ever stepped foot in Melbourne. Before she’d been placed under my roof.
This wasn’t chance. It was a game, carefully drawn, and we were already dancing on strings.
Matteo curses under his breath. “This was planned. He knew.” He turns to me, eyes wide with realization. “Cristofano, he knew about her before she even came.”
I drag deeply on the cigarette, the burn grounding me. Inside, my rage feels bottomless, coiled like a storm. If she believes her friend's death was mine…then this bastard painted me a monster long before I touched her.
Matteo’s hand flicks sharply. “Take them out. Both.”
The guards behind us move in, dragging the kneeling traitors by their arms. Their screams echo against the concrete as they’re hauled away, cut short as the heavy steel door slams shut.
Matteo wipes his hand on a cloth, eyes narrowing. “We’ll call our man in the Italian police. If Cristofano’s been pulling strings, we need to know.”
I nod once. He dials, pressing the phone to his ear. Silence stretches. His frown deepens.
“Nothing,” he mutters. “Not even a ring.”
A prickle of unease crawls down my spine. “Try again.”
He does. Again. Still nothing.
Slowly, Matteo lowers the phone. His eyes meet mine, hard and dark.
I turn to Matteo, my voice low but sharp. “Contact our allies in Italy; they are to watch my daughter. If Marcello’s plan runs this deep, then he’s not above touching a little girl.”
Matteo studies me for a moment, searching my face. His jaw ticks before he nods once. “Consider it done.”
“Put the mansion on red alert. Marcello is going to realize soon enough that what he has is a fake. And when he does, he’ll thrash like a serpent, looking for a way to sink his teeth in.”
Matteo doesn’t flinch, but his eyes narrow with something between concern and resignation. “And Serafina?” he presses. “You’re not afraid he’ll hurt her?”
A muscle jumps in my jaw. For a long moment, I stare past him at the wall, at the faint patterns in the wallpaper that I’ve memorized over decades. Then I shake my head once. “No. She’s the only leverage Marcello has against me. He won’t jeopardize that.”
The words taste like iron in my mouth, half-truth, half-prayer.
Matteo nods slowly. He doesn’t argue this time, though I can feel the weight of the thoughts he leaves unspoken. He steps back, turns, and leaves the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Alone, I move to my drawer. The metal handle is cool under my palm.
I slide it open, my eyes catching on the pistol inside.
I lift it out, feel its weight, the promise of it.
My thumb rests on the safety, and for a heartbeat, I picture Serafina—her green eyes, her trembling lips when she whispered Let’s get married soon.