Chapter 169 Fiorella
Three weeks.
Three weeks since the blood, the smoke, the gunfire, the chaos.
Three weeks since the hospital room, where everything smelled of antiseptic and fear.
It's three weeks since Rocco carried me out of a burning building like his life depended on it.
Now this, this small, quiet, impossibly warm moment in my apartment,seemed unreal.
The scent hit me first: rich tomatoes, basil, something creamy, something warm. My mother's laughter drifted from the kitchen, light and silvery-so familiar and yet something I never thought I'd hear again in this lifetime.
She stood barefoot on the tile floor, a wooden spoon in her hand, humming some old Italian soft tune I vaguely remembered from childhood. Her hair, much longer than I had remembered, softer, streaked with silver, was tied in a loose knot.
She looked alive.
Not a ghost.
Not a memory.
Alive.
“Are you just going to stand there staring?” she teased without turning, as though she had eyes on the back of her head.
I leaned against the doorway, folding my arms. “Maybe. It’s a rare sight. My mother, cooking. In my kitchen. Not dead.”
She flicked sauce in my direction, laughing. “You’re dramatic.”
“You faked your death,” I shot back.
"Touche," she muttered, stirring. "Come taste this."
I crossed the kitchen, took the spoon she was offering me, and tasted a creamy tomato sauce with pasta simmering inside. The flavors hit instantly: warm, rich, and nostalgic in a way that tweaked something in my chest.
My throat tightened.
“You remember how to cook it exactly the same,” I whispered.
Her smile softened. "Muscle memory. I cooked this every week when you were little. You'd run into the kitchen and demand a bite before I was even done."
Tears climbed up my throat, sudden and disinvited.
She noticed it straight away.
Without a word, she pulled me into her arms, sauce and all. Her hug was tight, warm, grounding, like being wrapped in a blanket I didn’t know I’d been freezing without.
“I’ve missed this,” I whispered against her shoulder. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think I’d ever have it again.”
She stroked my back as she had when nightmares awakened me as a child. "I know, my heart. I know."
We stayed that way until the pasta started bubbling too loudly and she pushed me away with a mock glare.
“If this food burns, I'm blaming your sentimentality.”
I snorted. “You’re the emotional one.”
“And you are your father’s stubborn daughter,” she muttered, turning the heat down.
My chest squeezed this time, warmly. “Don’t make me cry again.”
“Then set the table.”
Dinner was quiet at first, comfortable quiet: the clinking of forks, the soft simmer still coming from the pot on the stove, the occasional sigh from her when she took a bite and rolled her eyes like she was rediscovering flavors.
Halfway through her plate, she leaned back and exhaled contentedly.
"God," she whispered. "I haven't cooked like this… eaten like this… felt like this… in years. Years, Fi. I didn't think I'd ever sit across from you again like this."
My chest tightened again, but softer this time.
“You’re here now,” I said.
“I am,” she agreed quietly. “And I’m not leaving again.”
The words sank deep-like cement hardening around the cracks in me.
She insisted on doing the dishes after dinner despite my protests. I made tea, put on a movie, some romantic comedy which she claimed she hadn't watched but remembered the lines to, and joined her on the couch.
Halfway through the movie, she nudged me with her elbow.
“So,” she said casually, eyes still on the screen, “have you seen him recently?”
I blinked. “Who?”
She scoffed with drama. "Please. I was dead, not blind before. Rocco."
Heat flooded my face so fast I almost choked on my tea. “Mamma…”
“Ah! The fiancé.” She pointed at me accusingly. “You’re in love.”
I pulled a pillow to my face. "Stop."
She pried the pillow away with wicked delight. "Tell me."
I groaned, leaning back into the couch. “There is nothing to tell.”
She raised one perfect eyebrow. “He risked his life to carry you out of a burning building. He looked like a madman when they brought you both into the hospital. He refused to sleep for two days while you were unconscious. And when you finally woke up, Fiorella, that man looked like he was about to break from relief.”
I swallowed hard, staring at my hands.
Memories slammed into me too fast.
Rocco, who sat beside my bed, had exhaustion dragging his eyes down.
His voice broke as he whispered my name.
His hand shook as it touched my cheek.
Warmth spread across my cheeks again.
“Mamma,” I whispered, “I love him and sometimes I feel like I don’t even deserve him.”
"Deserve him how?" she asked softly.
My fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket. "He makes me feel… stronger. Seen. Like he doesn't look at what I've done or what I've been through,, he just looks at me. And I’ve made so many mistakes in this relationship but still yet he still keep on showing up for me.”
Her expression softened.
“And you love him,” she said.
My throat caught.
I tried to speak.
Failed.
I nodded then, slowly, heart thudding.
"Yes," I whispered. "I love him."
She smiled—soft, knowing, proud. “He loves you too.”
I looked up sharply. “You don’t know that.”
“Fiorella.” She gave me a pointed look. “A man who looks at a woman the way he looked at you? A man who storms into hell to pull her out? A man who calls your name like it’s the only word he remembers? Please. I may have been kidnapped, but I am still perceptive.”
Despite myself, I laughed-actual laughter, loud enough that she laughed too.
We leaned against each other, the movie forgotten, the room warm, the tea untouched, the weight of everything lighter than it had been in years.
For the first time in so long, something settled softly in my chest.
Hope.
Real, fragile, trembling, beautiful hope.
And as my mother laid her head on my shoulder, murmuring something teasing about grandchildren, all I could think was-
Maybe the worst was finally behind us.
Maybe life was giving me back all I thought I lost.
Maybe it was all finally-finally-starting over.
And by the time she finally retired to her room, the house was quiet, almost surreal in its peacefulness: the dishes done, the lights dimmed, the movie paused on some ridiculous freeze-frame of the protagonists mid-kiss.
Everything smelled like home: tomato sauce, clean linen, and that faint perfume my mother always wore.
I stood in the hallway for a moment, my hand against my doorframe, letting the weight of the day settle.
I was exhausted, but this time in a soft, weightless way. Not bone-deep survival exhaustion I'd grown so used to, but something gentler. The kind you felt after laughing too much, or letting yourself breathe for the first time in forever.
I walked into my room and closed the door quietly.
Moonlight, pale and silver, spilled through the curtains onto my bed. I changed into a loose shirt, let my hair fall free down my back, and crawled under the blanket.
For the first time in weeks, my body didn't flinch at the darkness.
I had just reached for my lamp when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
My heart did a small, stupid leap before I'd even checked the screen.
Rocco.
A call.
I swallowed, suddenly too warm under the blankets, then answered.
“Hey,” I said softly.
His voice came through low and rough, intimate in a way that wrapped itself around me like a second blanket.
“Fiorella.”
God.
My name had never sounded that way: half exhale, half prayer.
I sank deeper into the pillows. “You’re calling late.
"I know," he said. "I just… wanted to hear your voice before I sleep."
My stomach flipped, and I bit back a smile, thankful he couldn't see it. "That's… not your usual style."
"No," he confessed. "It's not."
Then a quiet breath.
“But you're not exactly a usual woman.”
Heat shot through me again, my toes curling under the sheets. "Is that your way of flirting?"
“It's my way of being honest.”
A pause.
"You settle something in me, Fiorella. Even when everything else is chaos."
I pressed a hand against my chest, because my heart suddenly felt too big for my ribs.
For a moment, neither of us spoke, just the breathing and listening, existing in the same quiet through the line.
“How’s your mother?” he asked finally.
"Resting. Healing."
I hesitated.
"She cooked dinner. Teased me about you."
A soft laugh escaped him, low and honest and lovely. “Did she?”
“Yes”
“What did she say?”
“That you're in love with me.”
Silence.
Not heavy.
Just… full.
Then Rocco's voice dropped lower, a shade rougher.
“She’s not wrong.”
I shut my eyes, letting the words wash over me.
There was no fear this time.
No ambiguity.
It was just warmth emanating out from my chest and down to every part of me.
“I'm glad you called,” I whispered.
“I didn’t want the day to end without talking to you,” he replied.
“And I definitely didn't want you falling asleep without hearing me say goodnight.”
The breath I took trembled. “Goodnight, Rocco.”
“Not yet,” he muttered.
“I'm not done hearing you.”
I let out a quiet laugh, tucking the blanket right under my chin. “You’re being very… sweet tonight.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“No,” I whispered. “It’s not.”
Another soft pause.
"When can I see you?" he asked.
"Just you. No hospitals. No chaos. No blood. Just… us."
My heart fluttered. “Whenever you want.”
“I want tomorrow,” he said at once. I smiled into my pillow.
"Tomorrow then." He exhaled, as if some tension he'd been carrying all day had loosened. “Get some rest, Fiorella.”
“You too.” He hesitated for a beat, long enough for one heartbeat, maybe two. Then, in a voice that sounded unguarded in a way few men ever were with me, he whispered:
“Goodnight, amore mio” My breath caught. Warmth spread across my chest like fire through silk.
“Goodnight,” I whispered back. “Rocco.” He didn’t hang up right away.
He waited until I had shifted under the sheets, settling in. He waited until my breathing steadied. Waited, like he wasn't quite ready to let me go. Finally, the line clicked off. I set the phone on my chest, staring at the ceiling, as the warmth in my body curled into something soft and dangerous and beautiful.
For the first time in months, I fell asleep easily, with a smile on my lips, and Rocco's voice echoing in my mind like a promise.