Chapter 33 – Serafina
Bianca’s small body is warm against me, her breath soft and steady where her cheek rests against my chest. She’s finally asleep—spent from fear, from tears, from everything—and I rock her absently, though my arms feel made of stone.
The waiting room hums with fluorescent light and the muffled shuffle of nurses beyond closed doors. Matteo paces like a caged animal, his boots heavy against the sterile tiles. His shirt is still damp with Cristofano’s blood. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, his voice low but sharp.
“They caught him,” he says. “Tony Belluci. My men found him trying to slip through the back alley. He’s in our custody now.”
I blink slowly, numb. The name cuts, but there’s no room left for shock. My fingers curl tighter around Bianca’s tiny shoulder. I manage a nod. Nothing more.
Matteo drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Listen,” he says, gentler, “I can take you and Bianca to a hotel nearby. Somewhere safe. You don’t have to sit here—”
The doors swing open. The doctor steps in, his white coat stained at the sleeves, his expression heavy. Time seems to stall.
He clears his throat. “The woman you brought in…” His eyes flicker with practiced sorrow. “…she didn’t make it. But her child survived. A girl.”
The world tilts. My knees buckle, but I can’t fall—Bianca’s in my arms. My breath comes ragged, like I’m drowning on dry air. Isla.
The doctor’s voice is still going, but I can’t hear anything past didn’t make it. My best friend, the girl who swore she’d always come for me, the one I promised to protect. Gone.
“And the man,” the doctor continues softly, “his surgery was successful. He’s still unconscious, but stable.”
Cristofano. Alive. Relief and devastation collide inside me until I don’t know which way is up. I stagger, the room spinning, and sink to the floor, Bianca still pressed against me.
Matteo is suddenly there, dropping to his knees. His arms wrap around me, pulling me in as I bury my face in his chest. His shirt smells of smoke, sweat, and blood, and I cling to it like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this earth.
The sobs come silent at first, then harder, my whole body shaking. I don’t want to wake Bianca. My teeth sink into my lip until I taste copper, but nothing stops the flood.
Matteo’s hand rests heavily on the back of my head, grounding me. His jaw is tight, his own eyes wet, though he fights to keep them clear. “I know,” he murmurs roughly. “I know.”
But he doesn’t. He can’t. Isla’s laughter, her voice promising we’ll always come for each other, the warmth of her hand that day we got our badges—all of it crashes through me like glass.
I sob harder, silently, into Matteo’s bloodied shirt. My arms curl around Bianca protectively, as if I can shield her from the ugliness of the world, from the grief that’s hollowing me out piece by piece.
Isla is gone. Cristofano is hanging on by a thread. And I—
I am breaking.
Matteo’s hand tightens briefly on my shoulder, steadying me as I cling to Bianca. My sobs are quieter now, but my chest still heaves like I’ve been running. His voice breaks through the haze, low but gentle.
“Do you…want to see the baby?” he asks.
For a moment, I don’t understand. Then it hits me—Isla’s child. My throat closes. I nod, too choked to speak.
He helps me to my feet, careful not to disturb Bianca, who stirs faintly in my arms. We walk down the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, each step heavy with the weight of what I’ve just lost. Matteo pushes open a door, and the soft beeping of monitors greets me.
Inside, a nurse stands beside a bassinet. She steps back as we approach. My knees almost buckle when I look down. A newborn baby girl, pink and impossibly tiny, wrapped in a pale blanket. Her chest rises and falls with fragile breaths, her fist curled up near her cheek.
The sob I’ve been holding back breaks free. Tears spill down my face as I reach out with trembling fingers, brushing one impossibly soft cheek. “Oh, baby,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Your mama…she loved you so much.”
Bianca stirs against me, blinking awake. She lifts her head just enough to peek at the baby, confusion and sadness mingling in her wide eyes.
I press my cheek against Bianca’s hair, clutching both her and the edge of the bassinet like I’ll drown without the anchor. My voice comes out cracked, raw. “It’s okay, little one. You’re not alone. I’ll take care of you. I’ll be your new mother. I promise.”
The words hang heavy in the sterile room, a vow pulled straight from my breaking heart. I feel Isla’s absence pressing down on me, but when I look at the baby—her daughter—I know I can’t falter.
****
The blinds barely hold back the dawn, thin slats of light slicing across the sterile white walls.
The air smells of antiseptic, sharp and cold, yet beneath it I catch faint traces of him—his cologne lingering on the sheets, the scent of smoke and steel that clings to Cristofano no matter where he goes.
My hand curls tighter around his, fingers interlaced with his limp ones, and I press my forehead to his arm.
His skin is warm, but it’s not enough. I need more.
“Please….” My voice cracks into the silence. “Please wake up.”
Bianca shifts on the couch by the window, murmuring something in her sleep, a tiny hand peeking from beneath the blanket.
She looks so peaceful. I wish I could keep her in that dream, shield her from all of this.
But here I am, begging a man who doesn’t move, whose chest rises only because machines keep it steady.
Tears sting as I whisper, “I can’t lose you, too. I miss you. I love you. And damn you, Cristofano Bellarosa, you can’t make me a widow. Not now. Not after Isla. Not after everything.”
The sob rips out of me before I can swallow it back. My shoulders shake, my tears soaking into his gown. I clutch his hand tighter, as if force could tether him here.
Then—something. A twitch, the faintest flutter beneath my grip. I freeze, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, so painfully slowly, his eyelids twitch, then open.
A sound escapes me—half gasp, half sob. His steel-gray eyes are unfocused at first, glazed, but then they find me. And it’s like being seen for the first time in forever.
“Cristofano…” I whisper his name like a prayer.
He groans, trying to sit up, and panic jolts me into action. “No, wait—don’t push yourself.” I slide an arm around his shoulders, guiding him upright with trembling hands. His body is heavy against mine, and yet I feel weightless with relief.
He looks at me, his expression soft, unbearably soft. His lips part, and his voice is hoarse, rough like gravel.
"It's all my fault. I’m sorry!” I sob
“No more apologies." His thumb brushes weakly across my cheek, wiping a tear I can’t stop. “No more tears.”
I nod furiously, my face wet, my throat raw. “Okay,” I choke out. “I’ll try. I swear I’ll try.”
The words I’ve carried like a stone finally break loose. “I love you.”
He studies me, eyes glistening, and then he leans forward. His lips press against the bridge of my nose, tender, deliberate, anchoring me. When he pulls back, his breath is shaky, but his words are steady.
“I love you too.”
My whole body folds forward, collapsing against his chest, my tears soaking his gown all over again. But this time, the sobs are different. Not hollow. Not hopeless. They’re alive.
Cristofano’s hand is still cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears that won’t stop. His words echo—I love you too.
Behind us, I hear a stir. Bianca shifts on the couch, small and restless, her lashes fluttering as she wakes. She sits up, rubbing her eyes with little fists, her blanket sliding into her lap. When her gaze finds me bent close to Cristofano, she blinks—confused, hesitant.
“Mama?” she whispers.
I turn to her, my heart breaking and swelling all at once. “Come here, tesoro.” My voice is soft, coaxing, fragile like glass.
She slides off the couch, bare feet padding against the tile, but she stops halfway, uncertain. Her big hazel-green eyes flick to Cristofano, wary and curious. I nod gently, urging her forward. “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.”
Cristofano, weak though he is, shifts upright, gritting through the discomfort. He stretches out a trembling hand toward her. “Come,” he says, his voice rough but steady, “I won’t hurt you.”
Something flickers in her eyes—trust, fragile but alive. She shuffles closer until she’s by my side. I press a kiss to her temple. “This is your papa,” I whisper, the words tasting surreal, heavy with everything we lost and everything we’ve found again.
She stiffens, then looks up at him, searching his face. “Papa?” she repeats, uncertain, as if trying the word for the first time.
Cristofano nods. With effort, he gathers her into his arms. His strength is nowhere near what it used to be, but he holds her as if she’s the most precious thing in the world—and she is.
His arms tremble under her slight weight, but he doesn’t let go.
He pulls her onto his lap and draws her close to his chest.
“I’m your father,” he tells her softly, his steel-gray eyes brimming. “And I should have been here for you all along. From today, I promise, I will be.”
Bianca looks up at me, her little brow furrowed. I nod, my tears spilling freely now. “It’s true, baby. He’s your papa.”
Her lips curve slowly into a shy smile. She studies his face, tilts her head, and then blurts in her innocent, unfiltered way: “You’re handsome.”
For the first time since he opened his eyes, Cristofano is visibly thrown off balance. His mouth parts, a flush creeps across his olive skin, and he actually stammers. “I—uh….”
I can’t help it. A laugh breaks through my tears, shaky but real. “Well,” I tease gently, brushing Bianca’s hair back, “it seems she takes after her mama with her blunt honesty.”
Cristofano narrows his eyes at me, mock offense barely hiding the warmth behind it. Bianca giggles—a soft, tinkling sound I haven’t heard in what feels like forever—and buries her face into his chest, safe in her father’s arms at last.
For the first time in years, we’re not three broken pieces scattered across the world. We’re here. Together.
Bianca is still curled against Cristofano’s chest, her little fingers tracing the buttons on his hospital gown, when I find my voice again. My throat is raw from crying, but I know I can’t keep this in.
“There’s something else,” I whisper, my gaze dropping to the floor.
Cristofano looks at me, his steel-gray eyes soft but searching. “What is it, amore?”
I swallow hard. My arms tighten around Bianca as if the strength will come from her warmth.
“Isla…she had a baby. A little girl.” My voice cracks.
“The doctors said she’s healthy. But….” I stop, fighting back the sting in my chest. “I don’t want to return her to Isla’s fiancé.
Not yet. Rome isn’t safe. And after everything—after Tony, after Marcello—I don’t trust anyone. ”
My fingers tremble as I brush Bianca’s hair behind her ear. “I want to raise her, Cristofano. As mine. As my own.”
For a moment, the room is silent but for the beeping of the monitor and the shallow sound of Bianca’s breathing. Then Cristofano reaches for my hand, his grip weak but steady, and tilts my chin up to meet his gaze.
“Not yours,” he says quietly, his eyes glinting with something fierce, something that pierces through my walls. “Ours.”
The single correction hits me like a weight and a balm all at once. My chest swells, my defenses crumbling in a rush of relief and ache. I melt into him, into the certainty of his words, and press my forehead to his.
“Ours,” I repeat, my whisper trembling against his lips.
Bianca looks up at us with wide, curious eyes, and I fold her closer into my embrace, wrapping my arms around both of them. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel it—something solid, something whole. A family.