Chapter 31 – Cristofano
Marcello’s Estate
A sharp sting explodes across my cheek.
I gasp, choking on stale air as I roll to my side, coughing hard enough to make my ribs ache. My eyes snap open, the world swimming—walls of concrete, shadows, the faint copper stink of blood.
“Cristofano—” A voice cracks, raw, desperate. My shoulder is seized, shaken hard.
I blink, vision clearing enough to see Matteo crouched over me, face smeared with blood, his hair matted, his chest rising and falling in ragged gulps. His hand comes down again, another slap against my jaw, and I groan.
“For God’s sake—thank heavens. You’re alive. You’re alive.” His voice breaks on the words, relief bleeding through the iron he usually wears like armor.
I force myself upright, teeth grinding against the pounding in my head. My jaw throbs where he’s been hitting me, my throat raw as I rasp, “Where—?”
Matteo drags me against the wall, his own body trembling with adrenaline. “Small room. Holding cell, I think. They dumped us here…. They thought you were out cold for good.”
My eyes sweep the space. Bodies litter the floor—three men, blood pooling beneath their motionless forms. My hand flexes instinctively, searching for a weapon.
Matteo notices. His mouth twists in a humorless grin.
“Don’t thank me all at once. I pretended to pass out when they brought us in.
Held my breath long enough to fool them.
Lucky for us, I learned how to do that when I was a kid—used to hide underwater for minutes during games in Sicily.
” His voice grows rough. “When they turned their backs, I made sure they didn’t walk out of here. ”
I lean back against the wall, sucking in breath, my body aching, every muscle heavy. “And me?” I manage, jaw tender with every word.
He glances at my bruised face, then shrugs almost sheepishly. “You wouldn’t wake up. So…I did what I had to.” His hand lifts, palm still red from striking me. “Slapped the hell out of you until you started breathing right again.”
A bitter laugh escapes me, swallowed quickly by pain. “You hit like a jealous lover.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but his eyes flicker with something—relief, guilt, loyalty all tangled together.
He crouches, rummages through one of the dead men’s jackets, then presses something into my hand. A pistol, its chamber half full. A knife follows, slick with blood but sharp enough.
I curl my fingers around the steel, my pulse steadying as the old familiarity slides back into place. “Good,” I whisper, my voice low, lethal. “Now we hunt.”
The pistol feels solid in my grip, the knife a cold shadow in my left hand. Matteo mirrors me—gun in one hand, dagger in the other. His face is smeared with blood, but steady, unreadable, the same mask he’s worn in every war we’ve fought side by side.
“Let’s find my wife and kid,” I growl, the words ripping out of me like an oath.
Matteo only nods. We push through the iron door, stepping into a dim corridor that reeks of sweat and metal. The silence doesn’t last.
Shouts. Boots pounding. Shadows stretch across the concrete walls—armed men coming fast.
“They know we’re up.” Matteo’s voice is grim, clipped.
The first three come around the corner. I don’t think; I move. My gun cracks once, twice—two men drop, the third ducks behind a pillar. Another rushes Matteo with a blade. Matteo blocks, twists, and buries his dagger into the man’s gut. Blood sprays, hot and dark.
I’m on the third before he can reload, slamming him against the wall. His skull cracks against the concrete, my knife finishing what the impact started.
Another wave. Five this time. Bullets scream past us, chipping stone. Matteo dives, firing low, clipping one man in the thigh. I grab another by the wrist, twist until his bones snap, and fire point-blank into his chest.
It’s chaos, but it’s ours. Years of trust keep us moving as one—my blind spot is his target, his stumble is my cover. We move like a machine forged in blood.
The last man falls, gagging on his own breath. Silence. Only our ragged breaths remain.
Then—footsteps. Lighter. Matteo lifts his gun instantly, but I hold out my arm. “Wait,” I whisper, eyes narrowing.
It’s not the heavy stomp of soldiers. It’s…quicker, fragile.
We press along the wall, cautious. The sound grows closer—small, hurried steps. And then—
A figure barrels around the corner and collides straight into my chest.
She falls back from the impact, a tiny frame crumpling on the dirty floor. My breath stops. My heart claws up my throat.
“Bianca….”
I’m on my knees before I even think, scooping her into my arms. She squirms, wide hazel-green eyes glistening with terror, and tries to wrench free.
“No—no, don’t run,” I murmur, gripping her gently but firmly. My voice cracks, gentler than it’s ever been. “It’s me. It’s okay. We’re the good guys, tesoro. We want to help you.”
Her gaze flicks nervously to Matteo, who stands just behind me, his pistol still raised. He sees her fear and—God bless him—slowly lowers it, tucking the gun behind his back. His lips stretch into something that might be a smile, awkward and forced.
“Hey, kid,” Matteo mutters, voice low, almost shy. “We’re here for you.”
Bianca trembles in my arms, staring at him, then at me. I smooth her hair back, holding her close, my chest tightening until I can hardly breathe.
I have her. My little girl.
At last.
Bianca’s wide hazel-green eyes meet mine—so much of Serafina in their color, so much of me in their shape. For a moment, the world falls away. I stroke her hair gently, brushing back the dark waves from her face, and force my voice soft.
“Don’t be scared, tesoro,” I whisper, my thumb tracing her trembling cheek.
Her lip wobbles. “Will you help Mama? And Aunt Isla?”
The words slam into me. Aunt Isla? My gut twists. Could it be Serafina’s best friend—the one she thought I murdered?
I force a nod. “Yes. I’ll help them both. I swear it.”
Bianca blinks back tears and tugs at my collar. “Then let me take you. I know the way.”
I cup her face. “Do you remember where you came from?”
She nods quickly. “Yes.”
I scoop her into my arms, holding her close to my chest. She clings to me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. Ahead, Matteo raises his gun, his broad shoulders a shield.
“Stay behind me,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
We move fast down the corridor.
The enemy comes before long—three men burst from a side passage, weapons raised.
“Close your eyes. Cover your ears!” I tell Bianca sharply.
She buries her face in my neck, pressing her small hands tight over her ears.
I draw my gun one-handed, firing in smooth bursts.
The first man jerks and crumples. Matteo handles the second, two shots center mass.
The third lunges, knife flashing. I twist, shifting Bianca out of reach, and drive my blade into his throat.
Hot blood sprays across my arm as he gurgles and falls.
Bianca whimpers, her tiny fingers digging into me, but I murmur against her hair, “Good job, tesoro. Keep your eyes closed. You’re safe.”
She whispers shakily, “That way.”
She points with one trembling hand toward a narrow corridor. We move, faster now, Matteo in front cutting down the last stragglers—gunfire echoes, the sharp grunt of pain, then silence again.
At last, we reach a heavy metal door, its bars twisted where someone tried to force them. The cage beyond it gapes open. Empty.
Bianca stiffens in my arms. Her breath hitches. “They were here,” she sobs. “Mama and Aunt Isla—they were just here!”
Her tears burn against my neck. My chest feels like it’s splintering apart, but I rock her gently, whispering lies that I need to believe myself.
“We’ll find them, Bianca. I promise you. We’ll find Mama and Aunt Isla.”
She clings tighter, trembling. And I know—I will burn this place to the ground before I let them vanish again.
The corridors stretch long and empty, every echo of our footsteps taut with dread. Bianca’s small arms loop tight around my neck, her little body trembling against mine. I can feel her heartbeat racing against my chest. Matteo strides ahead, gun drawn, eyes sharp as a hawk sweeping the shadows.
We turn a corner—and nearly collide with Alessandra.
She slumps against the wall, her once-perfect bob matted with sweat and blood. A guttural groan leaves her lips as Matteo seizes her by the arm, yanking her upright.
“Where is she?” Matteo snarls, shaking her once. “Where is Serafina?”
Alessandra’s head lolls to the side, her painted lips curving into a bitter smile. “Rot in hell,” she croaks, coughing blood into her hand.
I study her wound—a deep, festering gash down her side, too much blood lost. She won’t last. She’s already a dying thing. My jaw hardens.
“Leave her,” I tell Matteo flatly, my voice cold steel. “She’s useless.”
Alessandra lets out a sharp, broken laugh, which turns into a ragged cough. “You’ll see, Cristofano. You’ll see you should’ve chosen me.”
I don’t waste another glance on her. Matteo shoves her back against the wall, disgust in his eyes, and we press forward.
We walk. Each step feels heavier, the air denser, charged with the scent of iron and dread. Bianca suddenly stiffens in my arms, her breath hitching.
Then her scream shatters the silence.
My gaze jerks up—and my blood runs ice.
The space opens into a wide chamber lit by harsh overhead bulbs.
In the center, Serafina kneels, a heavy metal chain coiled around her neck and bolted into the floor.
Her hair is a disheveled halo, her pale skin smudged with dirt, her green eyes burning with defiance even through exhaustion.
Beside her, sprawled against the cold concrete, lies a heavily pregnant woman—her friend, Isla, if Bianca’s words ring true—tears streaking down her bruised face.
And towering over them, his smile venom-slick, stands Marcello Vitale. His men flank him like wolves, rifles gleaming in the artificial light.
“Well,” Marcello drawls, his pale eyes locking on me with a predator’s delight. “You finally showed up.”
The chain at Serafina’s throat glints as she shifts slightly, and though her body trembles, her gaze finds mine. For a single breath, the world shrinks to just her—her silent plea, her unbroken spirit—and rage coils hot and merciless in my veins.
I adjust Bianca higher against me, shielding her face from the sight, and my free hand tightens around the grip of my gun.
This ends tonight.