Chapter 28 – Serafina
Marcello’s Estate
Marcello’s men lead me through the grand corridor, their heavy boots echoing off polished marble.
I keep my chin lifted, my bun pulled tight at the nape of my neck, my black jumpsuit clinging like armor.
The double doors open with a creak, and there he is.
Marcello Vitale, lounging in a leather chair like a serpent coiled at ease, pale eyes glinting under the low chandelier.
His gloves gleam as he steeples his fingers, and that smile—the one that slithers across his face like it knows too much—makes my stomach twist.
I don’t wait for pleasantries. I yank the black box from under my arm and throw it onto the table in front of him. The sound of it hitting wood cracks through the room.
“There,” I bite out, my voice sharper than I feel inside. “I’ve done it. Just like you wanted.”
My chest heaves, my heart betraying me, because behind my words I still see Cristofano’s eyes—icy, bewildered—as he fired at Matteo instead of me. Why? Why spare me? That look in his gaze clings to me like a shadow I can’t shake. I slam the thought away before it breaks me.
Marcello doesn’t speak right away. He leans forward, pale eyes drinking in the black box like it’s a relic, like it belongs only to him. His breath hitches, reverent, and then he reclines back into his chair with a satisfied sigh.
“Finally,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “The heart of the Bellarosas, in my hands.”
“Keep your bargain,” I snap, forcing steel into my voice. “Now.”
He smirks, taps his gloved fingers against the box, and then claps. The sound echoes like a drumbeat of dread.
The door opens.
And Alessandra Morelli steps in, sharp bob gleaming under the light, sapphire eyes glittering with venomous triumph. But it isn’t her that makes the air leave my lungs.
It’s the tiny hand she holds.
“Bianca,” I breathe. My voice cracks as my daughter’s hazel-green eyes widen, and she wrenches free, running toward me with all the speed of her little legs.
“Mama!”
I fall to my knees just in time, arms wrapping around her, clutching her so tight she squeals. Her warmth, her smell, it shatters me. My chest caves as tears burn down my face.
Marcello leans back, smiling like a man who has already won.
“Surprise,” he drawls, his pale eyes gleaming. “I always keep my promises…though never quite how anyone expects.”
Bianca’s little arms wind around my neck with desperate strength, her warm breath trembling against my skin. My voice shakes as I pull back just enough to cup her face.
“Bianca…how did you get here, tesoro? Who brought you?”
She blinks, her hazel-green eyes brimming with confusion. “I—I don’t know, Mama. I went to sleep…and then I woke up here.”
Her words slice into me, and panic flares hot. My hands skim down her small arms, her shoulders, her chest—searching frantically for bruises, for any sign of harm. “Were you hurt? Did anyone touch you?” My voice breaks, trembling as my fingers shake over her. “Tell me, Bianca, are you hurt?”
Before she can answer, a low, mocking voice cuts through the room.
“Oh, please.” Alessandra’s heels click closer, her sharp bob gleaming like polished glass. She tilts her chin, eyes glittering with cruel amusement. “We’re not monsters. She’s fed, warm, and happy. Look at her.” She spreads her manicured fingers in mock innocence.
My head snaps up, rage boiling in my veins, but I force myself to rise slowly, pulling Bianca to her feet beside me. My fingers lock around her tiny hand like a shackle, as though letting go would mean losing her forever. I turn to Marcello, my pulse pounding so hard it drowns out thought.
“What is this?” My voice comes out raw, unsteady, but louder than I expect. “What the hell is the meaning of this?”
Marcello leans back in his chair, lips curved in that serpentine smile that never reaches his pale, translucent eyes. He doesn’t answer immediately—he savors it, the silence, the dread stretching tight in my chest. And then he spreads his gloved hands, taunting.
“I have one more surprise.” His tone is almost playful, but I feel the venom underneath.
From the shadows of the room, a figure steps forward.
My breath stops.
“Tony….”
His salt-and-pepper hair catches the light as he adjusts his worn leather jacket, a smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t look at Marcello. He looks straight at me.
“Serafina,” he says, my real name falling from his mouth like a sentence. His voice is warm, familiar, but twisted now with something smug. “Surprise.”
The world tilts. My stomach heaves. I stare at him, unable to form words, my heart ripping apart inside my chest.
Marcello’s smile sharpens, enjoying every fracture in my soul.
My arms tighten protectively around Bianca until she lets out a small whimper. I loosen my grip just enough, but my eyes never leave Marcello. He lounges like a king in his chair, pale blue eyes glinting with poisonous satisfaction.
“I must be good at surprises,” he says smoothly, as though this is all a performance for his amusement.
My throat burns. I look past him to Tony, to the man who was supposed to be my anchor in this storm. “What is going on?” I rasp. “Tony—how could you?”
Tony smirks, but it’s Marcello who answers. He leans forward, resting his gloved hands on the table as though savoring every word.
“Seven years,” he begins, voice low and deliberate. “That’s how long I’ve waited to set this into motion. Do you want to know when it started? Rome.”
My chest seizes. Rome?
Marcello’s smirk widens, his pale eyes gleaming as though he can taste my dread. “I was in the city on business, shadowing one of Cristofano’s men. And then, by chance—or maybe fate—I saw him. The Judge himself, in the open, walking beside a woman. You.”
A cold sweat breaks across my back.
He continues, his tone dripping with mock admiration.
“I watched as he trailed you through those narrow Roman streets, watched you steal glances at each other like two reckless teenagers. You thought you were invisible, but I was there when you booked the hotel. I stood across the street and watched him follow you inside. Cristofano Bellarosa, the untouchable man, breaking his own code for the first time in his life.”
I feel my stomach drop, bile clawing up my throat.
Marcello’s laugh is soft, cruel. “From that night, I knew you were the key. He didn’t sleep with women, didn’t waste time with distractions—until you.
That made you valuable. Precious. So I followed you.
Quietly, always in the shadows. I saw when your belly began to swell, and I knew the impossible had happened—Cristofano had left his legacy in you.
Do you have any idea how exhilarating that was? The Judge, undone by one woman?”
I hug Bianca tighter, my nails digging into my own palm to keep from shaking.
Marcello leans back, casual as though telling a bedtime story.
“I watched you hide the pregnancy, bury the truth. I watched as you became an agent, an undercover cop. And then my plan crystallized. You weren’t just his weakness—you were the perfect weapon.
All I had to do was guide you here, set the board, and let you believe you were making your own choices.
Every step you took brought you closer to destroying him. ”
His words slice deeper than any blade. I stare at him, my vision blurring, and I can’t stop the thought pounding in my skull: How could I have been so blind? So careless?
I glance down at Bianca, her small hazel-green eyes filled with fear and confusion. My heart aches so violently I can hardly breathe. Every risk, every lie, every mission—it wasn’t just mine. He had been watching all along. Stalking me. Using me.
Marcello leans back, flicking invisible dust from his cuff, pale blue eyes glittering.
“Do you know where Tony and I first met?” His smile curves sharp.
“A casino bar. Naples. He’d just lost—badly.
I watched him get tossed out like trash onto the pavement.
But what caught my eye wasn’t his sorry state—it was his badge, half-visible in his jacket. ”
My breath stutters.
Marcello spreads his hands, smooth as silk.
“I had my men lift him from the gutter. And then I made him an offer. Money. Freedom to gamble, to drown himself in cards and drink without ever fearing the debt collectors. All in exchange for one simple service—help me use you and your child to bring Cristofano to his knees.”
Beside him, Tony chuckles, stepping forward into the light.
His salt-and-pepper hair looks grayer now, his eyes dark hollows.
“You were too smart for anything obvious, Serafina,” he says, voice almost affectionate.
“So I played the long game. I invented a case with Don Vitale’s help.
Something dirty enough to catch your attention but false enough that you’d be walking straight into his world.
And to sell it….” He lifts his shoulders in a careless shrug. “I sent Isla.”
My pulse lurches. My lips part, but my voice comes out broken. “You had her killed.”
Marcello’s laugh is low, cruel, echoing off the marble walls. He claps his hands once, sharp. “Ah, Serafina—ever impatient. No. I have another surprise.”
The doors groan open.
Two guards drag someone forward, bound head to toe, chains rattling against the floor. My heart claws at my throat, my knees threatening to buckle.
When the figure lifts her head, swollen face barely recognizable, I see her.
Isla.
Heavily pregnant. Beaten. Bruised. Her eyes—still burning with fire even beneath the swelling—find mine, and I almost collapse.
“No….” The word rips from my chest like an animal cry.
Bianca screams at the sight, covering her ears, her small body trembling. I drop to my knees and grab her, pressing her face into my chest, whispering frantically, “Don’t look, tesoro. Don’t look.” My own vision drowns in tears.
I try to surge forward, to reach Isla, but armed men block me, guns raised, forcing me back. My hands shake as I clutch Bianca tighter, my sobs muffled against her hair. “Isla….”
Marcello watches the devastation with serene delight, one hand resting lazily against his jaw. “You see? I don’t destroy carelessly. I destroy completely.”
“Serafina….”
The voice is ragged, broken, but I’d know it anywhere.
My head snaps toward the sound, my throat constricting. Isla lifts her battered face, lips trembling as her swollen eyes widen. “Is it really you? Are you…here?”
Her words shatter something inside me. I clutch Bianca tighter, my hands trembling against her hair. My chest is hollow and full all at once.
I turn, shaking, to Tony. My voice is a whisper, but it cuts like glass. “How could you? How could you be so heartless?”
Tony’s smirk is casual, almost paternal, as if he hasn’t ripped apart the last thread of my faith in him.
“Because Serafina…I knew you. You were too careful. Too cautious. The only thing that could cloud you was emotion. Isla’s death—” he tilts his head toward her bruised figure, “—was perfect. It pushed you exactly where I needed you. Careless. Desperate. So willing to break rules that you didn’t even notice the case I dangled in front of you was a ghost.”
I shake my head violently. “No—”
“Oh yes.” He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “The FBI never took over Isla’s case. That raid? Just a few men I hired to play dress-up. Isla’s file didn’t exist. It was smoke, Serafina. Smoke and mirrors.”
The ground tilts beneath me. My knees nearly give.
I’ve been played. From the beginning.
My gaze flicks to Isla—her body wrecked, her child almost ready to be born—and my stomach twists so hard I taste bile.
The words slip out of me, hoarse, torn. “So Cristofano…didn’t hurt her?”
Marcello chuckles low, his pale eyes glinting with cruel delight. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees like a man telling a bedtime story. “Cristofano?” He spreads his hands. “He doesn’t even run a trafficking ring. Did you see the ring my men placed in the cage?”
The truth slams into me like ice water.
My eyes burn as I close them, Bianca’s tiny fingers clutching at me, and the weight of it all suffocates. I’ve been fighting a phantom. Accusing the wrong man.
“Mama, I’m scared.”
Bianca’s tiny voice trembles against my chest, muffled by the fabric of my jumpsuit. Her little arms cling to me like I’m her only anchor in the storm. My throat tightens as I press my cheek to her hair, inhaling the soft scent that has always meant home.
“You’ll be fine, my love,” I whisper, though my voice cracks. I blink rapidly, fighting the burn in my eyes. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
My gaze lifts, raw and desperate, to Marcello. His pale eyes gleam, enjoying every flicker of my fear. “You have the Black Book,” I choke out, my arms tightening around Bianca. “Let us go. Me. Isla. My daughter. You got what you wanted.”
Hope claws at me—foolish, fragile hope.
And then he laughs. His smile is serpentine, cruel, as he leans back in his chair and steeples his gloved fingers. Beside him, Alessandra chuckles.
“Let you go?” he repeats, savoring the words. “No, Serafina. That would be mercy.” He tilts his head, pale hair catching the light, and his voice hardens into ice. “I want Cristofano to have nothing. No family. No love. Nothing.”
My stomach turns to stone.
“You are the mother of his child,” he says softly, almost reverently. Then his gaze cuts to Bianca. “And so she must be destroyed, too.”
“No—!” My cry rips out before I can stop it, frantic and raw.
Marcello doesn’t flinch. He merely snaps his fingers.
Hands seize me from behind. They tear at my arms, prying Bianca from my grasp. I thrash wildly, screaming her name, clutching at her as she wails in terror.
“Mama! Mama!” Bianca’s sobs shred me apart. I hold on until my nails scrape skin, until my arms ache with the effort of not letting go.
But they are stronger.
Her little fingers slip through mine, and the sound of her cry pierces me deeper than any blade.
“No! Please—don’t!” My voice is hoarse, desperate. My entire body shakes as I lunge forward, but more men pin me down.
Through the blur of tears, I see her—my little girl—kicking and sobbing in their grip. My chest feels like it’s caving in.
And in the split second before the fight drains from me, before despair crushes me whole, I see Cristofano’s face in my mind. His steel-gray eyes, the way they softened only for me.
I cling to that image, to that impossible hope, as my world rips apart in front of me.