Chapter 173 Fiorella
Morning sunlight, like warm honey, trickled through the high boutique windows, soft and golden, glazing all the racks of silk and cotton with a dreamy shimmer. My mother walked a few steps in front of me, her fingertips grazing fabrics as though reconnecting with the world through texture. She wore a pale blue dress I had bought her last week, her first real outing outfit in years, and her smile warmed my chest alone.
It felt so unreal to be walking beside her like this.
Normal.
Calm.
Alive.
She paused at a rack of summer dresses, lifting the sleeve of a sunflower-yellow one with a small, delighted gasp. “This is beautiful,” she said, turning to me with a spark I hadn’t seen since I was a child. “You used to love this color. You wore it every chance you got. Even when it didn’t match your shoes.”
I laughed. Soft, surprised, full-bodied. "I was five, mamá. Nothing needed to match."
“You were stubborn even then,” she teased, slipping her arm through mine before I could respond. “Some things don’t change.”
I leaned into her, letting myself savor this —
, her voice, her warmth, the comfort I'd feared I'd lost forever. The boutique smelled of jasmine diffusers and new leather; quiet music drifted overhead. For the first time in weeks, my heart didn't feel clenched inside a fist.
We sifted through clothes together, holding fabrics up against each other, twirling in front of mirrors, giggling at outfits that were disasters. My mom hadn't shopped for herself in so long that every dress she tried on felt like another layer of grief peeling away.
At one point, she emerged from the dressing room in a fitted emerald dress, and as she twirled, the skirt flared out gorgeously.
"Mamá," I whispered, catching my breath. "You look happy."
She froze. In the mirror, her eyes softened with something fragile. “I feel happy,” she confessed, as if saying it might break the spell. “I didn’t think I would ever feel this again.”
My throat constricted. I reached for her hand, and she squeezed mine without letting go.
We bought too much stuff: dresses she didn't need, shoes I wasn't at all sure she'd ever wear, even a stupid glittery hair clip she laughed at and bought anyway because she said it reminded her of me as a teenager. We left the boutique toting bags and feeling lighter than we had in years.
Outside, the sky was a gentle blue, clouds drifting lazily. The streets bustled softly, not overwhelming, just alive. We walked to a small outdoor café and sat under a large umbrella, ordering iced tea and pastries. The breeze tugged my hair; my mother tucked a strand behind my ear the way she used to when I was little.
"Tell me about Rocco," she said suddenly, almost too casually.
Heat crept instantly up my neck. “Mamá.”
“What? I need to know what kind of man my daughter is planning to marry soon.” She arched a brow. “You think I didn’t notice the way he looks at you? As though the sun rises only to give him enough light to stare at your face?”
I covered my face with both my hands. "Please. Stop."
She laughed, delighted. “I hope your marriage is always filled with love. It’s not an easy one, mafia marriages. Do you think you can manange it?”
The question landed like a stone dropped straight into the center of my chest, rippling outward. I slowly lowered my hands. My pulse fluttered. “Yes,” I breathed. “I will. I love him… so much it scares me sometimes. I’ll do my best to make sure everything works out for our good. He deserves it, we deserve it.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my fingers. “Then hold on to him, my love. Hold on with both hands.”
Her words warmed me, softened the ache that still sometimes lingered from all the chaos we had survived. We spent another hour there, talking about nothing and everything, recipes she wanted to try, how she dreamed of hosting Christmas dinner again, how she pictured a garden of roses. I told her about work, about how Rosalia and I had been planning the baby shower, about how Rocco wanted a house with a big backyard someday.
Life was uncomplicated for a long time.
Bright.
Normal.
But it didn't stay that way.
⸻
We were walking back toward the car, arms linked, when my phone buzzed in my purse. I ignored it at first - Rocco and I always texted in the mornings, and part of me expected it to be him. Maybe a sweet message, maybe something teasing to make me blush.
But the phone buzzed again.
And again.
A sharp, cold instinct went through me. There was something in the rhythm that was wrong, too insistent, too rapid.
I pulled the phone out.
Three messages.
Same number.
But the preview froze the air in my lungs.
Phillipe.
My fingers were trembling as I unlocked the screen.
The first message hit like a blade to the ribs.
You really thought I'd disappear, Fiorella?
You think cheating death makes you untouchable?
The second followed instantly.
Your little boyfriend can't protect you forever.
Your mother won’t stay alive forever.
Or the De Lucas.
My heart pounded so hard, the world blurred for a moment.
Then, the third message came, colder and more vicious.
It's time you give back what you owe.
You and your mother haven't escaped me.
Not even close.
My mouth went dry.
I hadn't thought about Philippe in weeks. Everything had been consumed by the peace, the joy, the healing and recovery. Philippe's threat had been drowned under everything else.
But he hadn’t drowned.
He had been waiting.
He had been watching.
And now he was reminding me that he wasn’t finished.
My mother noticed the way I froze and stopped walking. “Fiorella?” she whispered, instantly showing worry in her expression. “What is it?”
I swallowed hard. My pulse was throbbing in my ears, drowning out street noise, drowning out air. I angled the phone slightly away from her and breathed deep through the panic rising in my chest.
I couldn’t let her see.
Not after everything she'd endured. Not after she'd just begun breathing freely again.
“I… I'm fine,” I said, forcing a smile so stiff it hurt. “Just…nothing important. Work spam.”
She didn't look convinced, but she let it go, slipping her arm back through mine as we continued walking.
Inside, my blood was boiling.
Phillipe.
And Victor.
I'd almost forgotten about them both-the sickness of their obsession, the games they'd played, the threats they'd made long before Nek had ever touched my world.
But they hadn’t forgotten me.
And now they were trying to slither back in like poison.
Not again.
Not now.
Not after everything we'd fought through, survived, bled for.
A cold clarity had settled into my chest, sharp and steady and vicious.
This wasn’t something I could just ignore.
This wasn’t something I could run from.
This wasn't something Rocco could shield me from without putting everyone in danger again.
The time had come to complete it.
Just to shut Philippe up for good.
To put an end to Victor's pitiful attempts to wield any form of control.
To cut the last string of my past, which threatened to choke me.
No more hiding.
No more running.
No more reacting.
If they were coming for me… Then I would strike first.
Upon reaching the car, I opened the door for my mother, helped her in, and shut the door softly. Then I leaned against the car, pulled out my phone, and looked at the texts again, each one more venomous than the last.
My heartbeat steadied. My jaw set. And with no longer trembling hands, I typed the words that would change everything.
You want me? Fine. Let's end this. And I hit send.