Chapter 12 Fiorella
The sun burned low on the horizon as my car stopped in the abandoned shipping terminal. Pyramids of crates like abandoned titans loomed overhead, their shadows stretching long and dark across cracked concrete.
This was De Luca territory.
And tonight, we weren't visiting for pleasantries.
The arm shipment was arriving at midnight. I arrived at eleven-thirty, early, but not desperate. My men stayed behind me, watchful, their hands no more than a few inches from their weapons.
I exited the vehicle. The nighttime air was cold, nipping, with the salt scent from the dockyards in the area.
And I felt it.
That presence.
Dark. Heavy. Menacing.
Rocco De Luca emerged between the crates, from out of the darkness. Black shirt, black pants, sleeves rolled up high enough to reveal the tattoos on his arms. His eyes clapped onto me for a moment.
Not a glance.
Not a nod of respect.
A lock.
As if a wolf detecting the scent of blood in the water.
I squared my shoulders.
I would not look away.
He walked toward me with deliberate slowness, each step measured and silent. His men flanked him, but they didn’t matter.
It was just us.
“You’re early,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with gravel.
I lifted a brow.
“So are you.”
His mouth quirked at the corner. Not quite a smile. More like a warning.
“I like to keep control of my business.”
I took a step forward, my boots echoing on the concrete.
"Control's a fragile illusion."
His eyes darkened.
"Is that what you tell yourself when you're facing people like me?"
I smiled quietly.
"No. That's what I tell myself when people like you think they can intimidate me."
His eyes moved over me, slow and deliberate, as if he was checking off every vulnerability, and finding none.
"You think you're invincible?" he said, closing the distance between us.
I met him halfway.
"I think I'm not easily impressed."
There was a silence between us, a hot, threatening silence.
He inched in close, his breath against my ear.
"Careful , bella. That sharp tongue may need to be tamed."
I turned my head, my lips brushing the edge of his jaw enough to make him tense.
"Try," I whispered.
His eyes flashed — something like rage and hunger.
He stood up straight, his muscles tense, and for the first time, I wondered if I had pushed him too far.
But then he laughed.
Low. Dark.
"You're playing with fire."
I glared at him, hard and unyielding.
"Only if you think you're hot enough to burn me."
That was when the first crate was opened.
The metal glinted in the light of the floodlights.
Pistols. Shotguns. A shipment of millions.
But I barely noticed.
Until something else caught my eye.
All I could feel was the weight of him beside me, near enough for the warmth of his body to tongue over my flesh like fire ready to consume.
He put a pistol into my hand.
"Check the weight."
I took it without thinking, spinning it in my hand, feeling the weight.
Perfect.
"I don't do sloppy deals," he said.
"I don't do sloppy anything," I replied, my gaze snapping back to his.
The air between us was suffocatingly thick, with something volatile.
He took a step forward, crowding into my space, and the need to back up tugged at me — but I didn't.
"You're different from the others," he said, his voice low.
I raised an eyebrow.
"So are you."
His fingers brushed against my wrist, for a fraction of a second. Barely touching. But it went through me, electric and sharp.
I hated that he did this to me.
But I enjoyed it too.
"I don't like unpredictability in business," he said.
"Then you shouldn't conduct business with me," I snapped.
His face contorted into something evil.
"Perhaps I shouldn't."
The standoff was over. His men began to load the guns into the trunk of their SUVs.
But we didn't move.
We stood there, toe-to-toe, two predators poised on the brink of something inevitable.
He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, his fingers rough and calloused.
“You’re trouble, Fiorella.”
I smiled, slow and wicked.
“So are you.”
His thumb brushed over my lower lip for the briefest second before he dropped his hand.
“Let’s see which of us survives it.”
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.
“Be careful tonight.”
I paused, looking back over my shoulder.
“You too, Rocco.”
I climbed into the car, heart pounding.
As the convoy pulled out of the yard, I glanced in the rearview mirror.
He was still standing there.
Staring at me.
And I knew
This was no longer business.
This was a crash waiting to happen.
The ride home took longer than usual. The night air blew in through the open window, but it couldn't cool the heat still burning beneath my skin.
Rocco De Luca.
Frustrating. Dangerous.
Magnetic in a way I despised.
I forced my thoughts elsewhere, watching the lights of the city fading into the horizon. My men brooded, their unease still lingering after the confrontation. The exchange had been good, smooth and professional, but the current running between Rocco and I had been anything but.
I rubbed my wrist where his fingers had caressed.
Damn him.
The gates of the D'Angelo estate creaked open, and the car moved smoothly into the courtyard. The house stood high and proud, lights burning in every window, servants moving like shadows behind sheer draperies.
My father was sitting in his study, waiting for me.
Of course, he was.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors without knocking.
He looked up from his leather chair, his cigar burning dimly between two fingers.
"Everything went well?"
“Smooth,” I said, draping my jacket over the armrest. "Shipment was clean. Exchange was smooth."
He nodded slowly, releasing a stream of smoke.
"I expected nothing."
I crossed the room, fixed myself a drink without permission.
"He was there."
My father's eyes flicked up. Sharp. Inquiring.
"Rocco?"
I took a slow swallow of whiskey, the burn focusing me.
"Yes."
"And?"
I shrugged, trying to sound bored.
"Arrogant. Dangerous. Predictable."
He chuckled softly.
"Reminds me of you.".
I tuned that out.
"What else?" I said, eager to beat a hasty retreat to my room and rid myself of the weight of the night.
But he wasn't done.
"I need you to clear your calendar for next Saturday."
I froze in my tracks, glass halfway to my lips.
"What's happening next Saturday?"
He smiled, that sly, calculating smile that always put me on my guard.
"The Venetian Ball. It's annual. We're attending."
I groaned.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious." He scooted forward in his chair, lacing his fingers over the desk. "There will be big men to deal with, alliances to shore up, agreements to whisper over in backrooms. You're my heir, Fiorella. You're going to be there."
I dropped back heavily into the chair, the leather creaking beneath me.
"I detest those parties. A roomful of peacocks and snakes, all puffing and posing."
"Exactly why you have to go," he said smoothly. "You can't govern an empire if you don't learn to dance among the snakes."
"I'd rather break their necks," I snarled.
He laughed. "Not in a ballgown."
I scowled.
"I'm not going to dress up in anything pink, frilly, or sequinned."
He waved his hand in dismissal.
"Find something… lethal. Something that says don't waste my time."
I took a final mouthful of my whiskey, already envisioning the stifling atmosphere, silk gowns, overpowering perfumes, greasy grins from men who thought they could buy deference.
"I'll go," I said brusquely. "But I won't like it."
"You don't need to like it," he said, getting to his feet to kiss my forehead. "You just need to own it."
I stood, heading toward the door, already making mental notes about black gowns, sharp cuts, and heels that could double as weapons.
“And Fiorella,” my father called after me.
I paused.
“Look your best,” he said softly. “They will all be watching.”
I didn’t turn around.
Let them watch.
Let them whisper.
Let them wonder how a woman like me fit into a world like theirs.
I’d show them.
I’d outshine their fragile egos in silk and steel.
But first, I had to know how to make it through an evening trapped in a golden cage…
With males who did not know a snake when it sat right in front of them, smiling pleasantly.