Chapter 29 – Cristofano
Bellarosa Estate
The weight of the Kevlar sits heavily across my shoulders, my fingers tightening the last strap as I check the holster at my thigh.
If I stop moving, the image of Serafina’s face when she ran will claw me apart.
My chest burns with the thought of Bianca, her small voice, her tiny hands—Marcello has her.
I know it before Matteo even opens his mouth.
The door creaks, and Matteo steps in, his face pale but controlled. “Our men in Italy just reported in,” he says, voice clipped. “The grandmother came to file a missing report. Bianca’s gone.”
For a moment, the room stills, like the air itself holds its breath. My jaw clenches, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. Marcello dared to touch my daughter.
“Send more men to the safe house,” I order, voice low and cold, the kind that makes lesser men flinch. “My father and the real Black Book stay protected at all costs. If Marcello learns what he stole is fake, he’ll come for the truth.”
Matteo’s eyes flicker with unease. “And you?”
“I’ll deal with Serafina.” Her name feels like glass in my mouth, sharp and cutting.
Matteo crosses his arms. “I’m not leaving your side. Not when you’re like this.”
Frustration claws at me. “Don’t be stupid, Matteo. My father is priority—”
The sharp shout of a guard outside cuts me off. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, you cannot come in—”
A dull thud, a groan of pain. The door slams open.
Alessandra.
Her heels strike the marble like gunshots, her sapphire eyes gleaming with something venomous. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of me armed and ready for war. Instead, her red lips curl into a smile that feels like poison.
“This isn’t the time,” I snap, the words a growl, my patience fraying with each passing second.
“Oh, but it is.” Her voice is smooth, mocking, designed to slice. She takes another step closer, perfume cloying in the air. “The bitch betrayed you already. And you’re too blind to see it.”
For a moment, silence.
The words hang between us like a blade. Matteo stiffens beside me, his hand twitching toward his sidearm, but my focus is locked on Alessandra.
My fists clench. My heart is a storm.
I stare at Alessandra, her smirk like a blade sheathed in lipstick. My pulse spikes, fury boiling over. In two strides, I close the distance, my hand snapping to her throat. Her body slams into the wall with a dull thud, my fingers tightening until her breath hitches.
“Where is she?” My voice is a growl, low and violent, steel-gray eyes boring into hers.
A single tear slips from the corner of her eye, trailing down porcelain skin, but her sapphire gaze gleams with stubborn fire. “I thought you were cured of this…delusion,” she chokes out, her nails scratching at my wrist. “I came to save you, Cristofano. Before Marcello ruins you completely.”
Marcello.
The name hits like a gunshot in my chest. Cold clarity slices through me—she’s bait. Marcello planted her here, dressed her up in loyalty, and sent her to corral me like a fool.
Her knees start to buckle, her face paling, and I release her suddenly. She stumbles, clutching her throat, dragging air into her lungs in ragged gulps.
“Take me to them,” I snarl. “Serafina. My daughter. Now.”
Her lips tremble, but then curl into a bitter smile. “I can give you children, Cristofano. Sons. Real heirs. You don’t need her.”
My hand fists in her arm, yanking her forward so hard she gasps. “You don’t decide what I need.”
Behind me, Matteo barks orders, his voice sharp as gunfire: “Assemble! All men, move now!” Boots thunder through the halls, men rushing to position.
I drag Alessandra with me, her heels scraping across the marble as she protests. At the garage, I throw her into the back of the black Maserati, her glare hot enough to burn.
“Take us to Marcello,” I order, my tone final, deadly.
She laughs bitterly, though fear flits across her face. “You’ll regret this.”
I slide in beside her, my gun resting casually but visibly against my thigh. My eyes never leave hers. “No, Alessandra,” I say, voice quiet, laced with lethal promise. “It’s you who will regret this.”
Matteo slams the door, climbs into the front, and yells for the convoy to move. Engines roar to life, the Bellarosa fleet spilling out into the night like shadows on the hunt.
Inside the car, Alessandra’s perfume chokes the air. My heart pounds with only one thought, one vow.
Serafina. Bianca. Hold on. I’m coming.
***
Matteo grips Alessandra’s arm tight, dragging her forward like a prisoner, her wrist bent at an angle that keeps her quiet even as she winces. I walk beside them, every step heavy, rage simmering just beneath the surface.
Outside, my men fan out, their presence a wall of muscle and guns. I know each of them is watching, waiting for the signal, but inside these walls it’s just me, Matteo, Alessandra…and him.
Marcello Vitale sits in the center of the room as if he owns the world, legs crossed, gloves pristine, golden hair gleaming under the low chandelier. A smile curls on his lips the moment his pale, serpent eyes find mine.
“Cristofano,” he says, smooth as poison, spreading his arms like a host welcoming a guest. “I’ve missed you.”
My jaw locks so hard I feel my teeth ache. “Where are they?” My voice is flat, edged with steel. “My wife. My child.”
Marcello doesn’t answer with words at first. Instead, he lifts his gloved hands and claps slowly, mockingly. The sound echoes through the hall.
Behind him, a massive screen flickers to life.
And there they are.
Serafina—pale, trembling, clutching Bianca so tightly it looks like she’ll fuse their bodies together. Bianca’s small face streaked with tears, pressing into her mother’s chest. And beside them…another woman. Bound, swollen with pregnancy, her body battered but her eyes defiant even in their ruin.
My throat tightens, a roar pressing against my chest, but I force myself still. Any wrong move, and that screen becomes their execution.
“Dismiss your men,” Marcello drawls, leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossing over his knee. “If you want to see your little whore and your child alive, dismiss them. Now.”
I glance at Matteo. His hand twitches toward his weapon, the old soldier in him ready to fight. But then he touches the comm in his ear, his voice clipped. “Disperse.”
There’s a beat of silence, then the soft shuffle of boots outside as my men pull back.
Marcello tilts his head, and one of his guards whispers in his ear. He smiles wider. “Good. They’ve gone. Just you and me now.”
I step forward, every muscle coiled, my hands flexing at my sides. “You have the Black Book. Let them go.”
Marcello throws back his head and laughs.
A sharp, grating sound that echoes in the hollow room.
When his pale eyes snap back to me, they glitter with mockery.
“Do you truly take me for a fool? You think I don’t know what you gave me is fake?
” He leans forward, his smile stretching thin, predatory.
“No, Cristofano. The Black Book was never my prize. You were.”
The words land heavily, like chains wrapping around my chest. My heart beats harder, faster, but my face stays carved from stone. Inside, though, fire licks up my veins. He thinks he has me.
Marcello’s pale eyes glitter as he rises, the smirk on his lips like venom given form. Slowly, deliberately, he draws a sleek black pistol from beneath his tailored jacket. The barrel gleams in the dim light as he levels it at me.
“I’m going to kill you,” he says almost casually, his voice cold silk. His gaze flicks toward the screen still showing Serafina and Bianca. “And then your little wife and child. Nothing left. Nothing.”
A flash of panic claws through my chest, but I shove it down, locking my body into steel. “You won’t touch them,” I growl, my finger twitching near my holster.
Before I can move, Alessandra’s voice slices the tension. “Don’t you dare!” she screams, lunging forward despite Matteo’s grip on her arm. Her eyes burn with desperation, sapphire shards of madness. “He belongs to me!”
Marcello chuckles, and, without hesitation, he swivels the pistol and fires.
The crack shatters the room. Alessandra crumples to the floor, clutching her thigh as blood seeps through her silk dress. She groans, spitting out a curse, “Son of a bitch!” Her voice is ragged with pain.
My gun is out in a heartbeat, Matteo’s too. Both barrels trained on Marcello. My chest heaves, fury threatening to split me apart.
“Let’s not get hasty,” Marcello says, almost amused, lifting one gloved hand. “Breathe in, Cristofano.”
The words puzzle me for a split second—then he lowers the gun and covers his own nose with that same gloved hand. My gut twists.
A hiss fills the room. Thick white fumes roll in from hidden vents above, curling fast, choking the air.
“Gas!” I bellow. My lungs already burn, my instincts screaming. I whip toward Matteo, shouting, “Don’t breathe! Hold—!”
Marcello slides on a sleek black mask with calm precision, his eyes glowing with triumph through the haze. His silhouette becomes monstrous in the smoke.
Matteo staggers first, his gun slipping from his grasp as his knees buckle. He coughs, chokes, and crashes to the ground with a heavy thud.
“No—!” I roar, stumbling toward him, my vision blurring, every breath clawing fire into my chest. I drop to my knees beside him, fighting the pull of unconsciousness, forcing myself to stay awake.
My fingers brush Matteo’s shoulder, my teeth grit—my body refuses to obey. The haze presses down like a weight.
Marcello’s laugh is the last thing I hear as blackness claws me under.