Chapter 159 Rocco
The phone buzzed against the mahogany of my desk, sharp enough to drag me out from the haze I didn't even know I was in. I looked down without enthusiasm, expecting yet another update from my men, another detail about Camillo, or perhaps another warning about Nek's machinations.
But it wasn't any of that. It was her.
Fiorella.
Her name glowed softly on the screen, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop-just so I could stare.
Rocco… are you okay? I… I miss you.
The message tightened my chest in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I hadn’t had a moment to think about her, not really. Not fully. The past few weeks had been a nonstop whirlwind: Camillo’s return, the knife fight, Riccardo’s shooting, failed bomb attempts, Nek’s manipulations, the city threatening to tip into chaos around me. My focus had been survival, strategy, revenge, keeping my family and our operations intact.
And here she was, reaching out, more vulnerable than anyone else could ever be.
I set the phone down, leaned back in my chair, letting my head fall against the leather backrest. For the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to consider the fact that I still wanted her. That my anger, which had burned so hot when I first discovered her betrayal, had dulled into something more complex, harder to define. Not forgiveness. Not entirely. But a yearning that hadn't left.
I ran a hand over my face, thinking of her-the way her eyes had looked when she tried to explain herself, the trembling in her voice despite the steel I knew ran through her veins, the determination and pride she wore even as she crumbled inside. She wasn't weak. She had never been weak. And she'd done it all for her mother.
A slow, involuntary exhale escaped me. I hadn’t allowed myself to admit it, but part of me had been hoping she would reach out. Hoping she would remind me she was still there, that perhaps, just perhaps we could find a way through this storm together.
I lifted the phone and began typing carefully, each word deliberate:
R: I'm good. You?
Simple. Direct. Neutral enough to keep my composure, yet soft enough that she would feel my attention.
The response came promptly, laced with concern:
F: I'm. okay. Worried. About you. About everything.
I leaned back further, gripping the arms of the chair, feeling the tension I'd been carrying for weeks press against my shoulders. Everything. She said the word I hadn't wanted to think about: everything. And she was right. It was everything, our future, our families, our enemies, her mother, the betrayals, the city, and somehow, despite all that, there was still her.
And I realized something I hadn't let myself admit before: I wasn't as mad as I had been. Not fully. Not the way I should be if I followed the righteous path of anger and pride. My hands tightened around the phone.
I wanted her. I wanted her back. I wanted to know she was safe. I wanted to find her mother and bring her back so that she could breathe again, relax, and finally be herself around me without fear.
I typed again, slowly, thinking of the words:
Hope you get her back… and hope you're alright. We'll figure it out.
The phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Fiorella.
“Rocco?”
I looked up to find Rosalia standing in the doorway. Rafael’s wife. Her face was composed, soft, almost maternal, but her eyes held the directness I had always respected.
"Rosalia," I said, masking the tension in my voice. "What brings you here?"
She walked into the office, with her hands folded in front of her. “Checking up on you. And… on her, too.”
My heart thumped. “Fiorella?”
She gave a small, knowing smile. “Yes. Don’t pretend you don’t think about her every second. I can see it in your posture, your hands, even the way your eyes avoid the clock.”
I let out a sharp exhalation, leaning back. “I… haven’t had time. Everything’s… been nonstop.”
Rosalia nodded, moving toward the desk. "I know. You've been fighting every fight imaginable the past few weeks. And yet, somehow, she's still in your thoughts."
I looked down at the phone, its screen glowing faintly. Her messages still lingered there.
“You know, Rocco,” she continued, leaning on the desk slightly, her voice softening but firm, “anger can be loud. It can consume you. But it doesn't always tell the whole story. Sometimes… what you feel beneath it is more important. Sometimes you just need to let yourself think about what you want, not what you should want.”
I closed my eyes, letting the truth of her words wash over me. She wasn't lecturing. She was pointing. She was reminding me of what I had almost forgotten, what I wanted and who I wanted.
Rosalia gave me a small, knowing nod. “Just… talk to her. Work through it. You'll regret it if you don't."
I swallowed, clenching the phone tight. Her advice settled in my chest like a spark lighting dry kindling.
After she was gone, I stared at the screen, thinking of Fiorella, of the stolen glances we'd shared, the arguments, the betrayals, the closeness that had survived it all.
I typed slowly:
R: We should see each other, talk, figure this out.
My thumb hovered over send for a moment. Then I pressed it.
And waited.
⸻
The house was finally quiet, too quiet for a man with my thoughts. I sat alone in my office, the dim desk lamp casting long shadows over the piles of intel scattered before me. Camillo's face stared up at me from one photo, Nek's from another. Two ghosts.Two men who had survived far longer than they ever should've.
I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk, my fingers pressed hard into my temples. Every move they'd made in the past few weeks replayed in my head like a ticking clock: Camillo striking from the dark with that smug grin, Nek manipulating Fiorella like she was a pawn on his dirty board. Enough was enough.
My jaw clenched as an idea began to form-not revenge, not anger, but strategy. Cold, precise, devastating strategy.
Camillo loved theatrics. He loved the feeling something being thrown into chaos. The only way to kill a man like him was to out‑chaos the chaos, to strike at a moment he wasn’t expecting, force him into a corner where his ego would blind him.
Nek, on the other hand, was predictable in the worst ways: calculated, paranoid, obsessed with control. He hid behind layers of protection, safe houses, men who feared him more than death. The only way to take him down was through a path he never expected.
Fiorella.
Not using her. Not again. Never again. But the trail to her mother… that was the thread. Find where her mother was hidden, and I'd find Nek's weakest point. Shake him, expose him, and then cut him from the world like a tumour.
A slow exhale left me, sharp and focused. I could almost see it: the night when it would all go silent for both of them. Camillo's arrogance collapsing beneath my blade, Nek choking on the fear he had forced into everyone else.
I reached for my phone to message Rafael and Riccardo. I needed them. Needed everyone sharp, ready, ruthless.
Before I could type, the phone rang. Riccardo.
I answered right away: "What's wrong?"
His voice wasn't its usual sharp, cocky tone. It was rough, breathless. "Rocco… you need to get down here. Now."
My stomach clenched. "What happened?"
Silence. A heavy, shaking breath.
“It's Rafael.”
Everything inside me went still. “What about Rafael?”
“He was… he was shot, Rocco.” Riccardo's voice cracked, and that alone chilled me. Riccardo never cracked. “He's in the hospital. They just took him into surgery. It-it doesn't look good.”
The room spun around me. The lamp flickered; the shadows seemed to lurch. I couldn't breathe for a heartbeat. Rafael. My brother. My anchor. My blood.
Shot.
I stood, my chair scraping violently across the floor. Papers fell from the desk, forgotten. My pulse thundered in my ears as I grabbed my jacket.
"Who did it?" I demanded, voice shaking with a rage I didn't recognize.
Riccardo inhaled sharply. “They left a sign.”
“What sign?”
Another pause. Then deadly quiet. “Camillo’s mark.”
My blood ran cold. My phone was buzzing violently in my hand. I opened it.
Camillo: “I told you I won’t miss. One brother… two down to go.”