Epilogue – Serafina
Melbourne Prison - Six Months Later
The clanging of the prison gates echoes down the concrete hallway as I walk, my heels tapping softly against the cold floor.
A guard gestures me into a small visitation room—metal chairs, scratched table bolted to the ground.
I sit, my back straight, hands folded, my pulse steady though my heart beats like a drum in my chest.
The door opens. Chains clink. And then she appears.
Alessandra Morelli.
Her once-perfect bob has grown out. The elegance she once carried into every room is gone, replaced by a hollow stiffness. She lowers herself into the chair opposite me, the cuffs rattling against the table. And then I notice it—her belly. She’s pregnant.
Her eyes narrow. “Did you come to brag?” she asks, her voice brittle, laced with venom, but under it—fear.
I lean forward. “No. I came to remind you—you owe me your life.”
Her lips curl, but I don’t let her speak.
“You should be dead, Alessandra. Cristofano wanted it. Matteo wanted it. Hell, even your own family would’ve preferred it.
But I pleaded for you. I convinced him to spare you.
” My voice breaks slightly, not from pity, but the weight of memory.
“This…prison cell? That baby you’re carrying?
You only have them because I begged him not to kill you. ”
For a moment, her face twists. She slams her cuffed hands against the table, the sound sharp. “You think I should thank you?”
I hold her gaze, unflinching. “No. I think you should understand.”
Marcello Vitale’s fate had been swift. The Mafia does not forgive failure, and betrayal is a disease they cut out at the root.
He had been executed publicly, his body left as a warning in the square where he once boasted of his rise.
His empire crumbled with him, and every family that once whispered his name spat it out like poison.
As for Alessandra—her fall was quieter, but just as brutal. Her powerful family, desperate to distance themselves from her, pinned petty money-laundering charges on her. They severed every tie. No visits. No protection. No inheritance. She was erased from her own bloodline.
And so she sits here, not the queen she dreamed of being, but a discarded pawn, pregnant and forgotten.
Her eyes glisten, but she masks it with a sneer. “You took everything from me,” she whispers hoarsely.
“No, Alessandra,” I answer, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “You did that yourself. You let Marcello use you. You let your obsession blind you. And in the end, you betrayed not just me, not just Cristofano—but yourself.”
Her breath hitches, and for the first time, I see it—the crack in her facade. She leans back, chains rattling, her hand drifting protectively to her belly.
Alessandra scoffs, her lips twisting in bitter defiance. “Why are you even here?”
I lean forward, my voice trembling with anger, but sharp as a blade. “Because you killed my friend. I buried her twice.”
The words rip out of me, raw, dragging me back to that day—the fresh soil under my knees, my body wracked with sobs as I pressed trembling fingers to the headstone.
I had thought I’d lost Isla once when she disappeared, but lowering her into the ground a second time shattered something inside me. My tears had stained the earth.
Alessandra laughs.
My hands clench on the table. “When your child is born,” I whisper, my voice shaking but steady, “it will be taken from you. Given to your family. You will never hold it. Never rock it to sleep. Never hear it call you mother.”
The laugh dies in her throat. Her sapphire eyes widen, panic flashing there.
I lean closer, my breath trembling but fierce. “I will make sure your child is a stranger to you. You will rot in here. Forever.”
“Liar!” she spits, lunging forward, her cuffed hands straining across the table. She tries to grab at me, her nails catching air.
The guards rush in instantly. They seize her arms, wrenching her upright as she thrashes, cursing, her voice breaking with fury.
“You think you’ve won, Serafina!” she screams as they drag her toward the door. “You’ll never keep him! Cristofano will be mine, do you hear me? Mine!”
Her curses echo long after the door slams shut, the chains rattling like a dirge in the silence that follows.
I sit back slowly, my pulse thundering, my hands shaking in my lap. For the first time in a long time, I feel no guilt in the sob building in my chest—only cold resolve.
****
I smooth down my blouse with trembling hands before slipping into the driver’s seat. The leather feels too cold, too stiff beneath me, but I grip the wheel and start the engine anyway. The road blurs past in streaks of gray and green, my heart tightening with every mile.
When I finally pull up to the cemetery, dawn light spills over the rows of stones, soft and unforgiving. I step out of the car, clutching the bouquet of lilies in one hand and a brown bottle of beer in the other. My heels crunch against gravel as I make my way to her grave.
ISLA CONTI.
I kneel slowly, placing the flowers down, adjusting them until they sit just right. My hands linger, brushing dirt and old petals away, as though clearing the stone might somehow make up for everything I failed to do. My throat burns.
I sit back against the headstone, pressing my spine into the cold marble until I feel it through my bones.
I tip my head back and close my eyes, just breathing for a long moment before whispering, “Isla.” Her name tastes bitter in my mouth.
“I brought you flowers. And…” I raise the beer bottle, fumbling with the cap until it hisses open, “…this. You always said we’d drink cheap beer when we finally made it.
So”—my voice cracks, and I swallow hard, forcing the words out—“here’s to you. ”
The tears come before I can stop them. Carving paths down my cheeks. I swipe at them, angry, but more come, and I give up.
“I need you to forgive me,” I whisper, the words breaking apart.
“For holding on to her. For not letting her go to her father.” My chest shakes with sobs.
“She’s so beautiful, Isla. So chubby, so alive.
Her little fists curl just like yours did when you were angry.
She’s everything you deserved to see. And I kept her. ”
I bow my head, my hand gripping the bottle so hard it hurts.
“I promise I’ll tell Luca about her, one day. When she’s older. When I know she’s safe. But not now. Rome isn’t safe. No place feels safe.” My shoulders shake as I squeeze my eyes shut. “Forgive me for keeping her close, Isla. Forgive me for not letting go.”
A weak laugh slips through, broken by sobs. “She looks like you. So much it hurts to breathe when I hold her. Every time she cries, I think of you laughing. Loud and wild. And every time I see her smile, I see the friend I lost twice.”
My chest collapses, and I fold forward, pressing my forehead against the cold stone. My tears soak into it, leaving trails. “I miss you,” I choke out. “I miss you every day. I couldn’t save you. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
The silence presses in on me, heavy, suffocating. I take a long swig of the beer, the bitterness stinging my throat. I gasp for air and clutch the bottle to my chest, as if it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
I sit there for a long time, whispering to her, telling her about her baby, about Bianca, about Cristofano. About love, about loss. Talking as if she can hear me. Talking because if I stop, I’ll drown in the silence.
****
The drive back from the cemetery is harrowing, the hum of the road barely cutting through the heavy ache still in my chest. By the time I reach the villa, the sun is high, spilling gold through the tall windows. I push the door open—and freeze.
A shrill beeping cuts through the air. The smoke alarm.
My heart lurches, and I drop my bag by the door, running toward the kitchen. The smell hits me first—burnt sugar, charred flour, the unmistakable sting of smoke.
When I burst through the doorway, the scene makes me stop dead.
Matteo is crouched at the oven, wrestling with a blackened tray like it’s a live bomb.
His face is red from the heat, sweat dripping down his temples.
Cristofano stands a few steps away, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel over one shoulder.
Strapped against his broad chest is a tiny bundle—Isla’s baby girl—snoozing peacefully, utterly oblivious to the chaos.
And right in the middle, Bianca, standing on a stool with chocolate smeared across her chin, spots me first. Her eyes light up.
“Mama!” she squeals, leaping down and running straight into my arms.
I scoop her up, clutching her tight, my heart softening even as the smoke alarm continues its shrill protest.
Behind us, Matteo curses under his breath as he sets the tray down with a thud. Cristofano shifts, shielding the baby’s head with one hand as if smoke could dare touch her. His gaze meets mine, sheepish, and he clears his throat.
“Baby…you’re back,” he says, his deep voice low, almost guilty.
I raise a brow, holding Bianca on my hip as I take in the scene—burnt cake, flour on the counter, two grown men caught red-handed. “What,” I ask slowly, “exactly is this?”
Matteo glances at Cristofano like a man hoping to be rescued. Cristofano exhales through his nose, clearly cornered, and finally admits, “We were…trying to make a cake.”
“A cake?” I echo, biting back a laugh.
Before I can press further, Bianca pipes up, her little voice carrying a note of mischief. “Daddy makes horrible cakes!”
Cristofano blinks, stunned, as though she’s just betrayed him in front of the entire syndicate. His mouth parts, and for once, Il Giudice—the Judge himself—looks genuinely flustered.
I can’t help it—I laugh. The sound feels strange after everything, but it tumbles out of me, warm and real. Bianca giggles too, clinging to my neck, and the baby stirs faintly against Cristofano’s chest.