Chapter 28 Fiorella
I was awake when the sun began to rise.
Sleep had come easily, I had slept safe and sound in Rocco’s arms forgetting everything else.
My father was still unconscious.
My men were on edge.
And Rocco De Luca had marked me in ways I hadn't anticipated.
I could still feel the pressure of his hand in my hair.
The heat of his shoulder against my temple.
The way he had let me rest against him, solid and still, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
I didn't like it.
Didn't like that I had let him see me like that, unguarded, vulnerable, less than the inviolable Fiorella D'Angelo that the world knew.
I pulled myself up , my movements slow, my body exhausted but my mind still awake.
The estate was stirring.
Guards patrolled the halls, my father's men at each door.
I could feel the weight of their eyes on me, their unspoken questions lingering in the air.
"Any news?" I asked, approaching, Leo my father's right-hand man.
He shook his head. "No change. But the doctor is hopeful."
I nodded, my jaw tight.
Hopeful wasn't enough.
“We need to keep moving," I said, bracing my back.
"I want double the guards on my father and double the security here. The Marchesi family will not be stupid enough to strike again so soon, but I do not anticipate that they will be quiet for long."
Leo hesitated. "And the De Lucas?"
I slowly exhaled.
Rocco.
"They are still allies," I finally said. "For now."
And still, my mind was replaying last night.
The way Rocco had looked at me, spoken to me, held me.
Like he could see me.
Like he understood.
I hated that.
Because if there was one thing I knew about guys like Rocco De Luca,
it was that they never quit until they got what they desired.
And I was starting to think that what he desired, was me.
I turned away before Leo could see the flicker of doubt on my face.
I had too much on my plate.
I refused to be distracted.
Not by Rocco.
Not by the sensation of his touch.
And not by the possibility that a part of me hoped he'd touch me once more.
But as I walked through the estate, my father's kingdom on my shoulders, I knew one thing for certain.
This war wasn't won.
And neither was what was happening between me and Rocco De Luca.
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A few days had passed.
The house was different.
In spite of the usual security that protected every entrance, something in the air was wrong—heavy with something unspoken. The hallways that had always resonated with the commanding presence of my father now felt stripped, as if his absence had sucked them of their command.
I hated it.
I hadn't slept. Not truly. Every time I closed my eyes, the images came flooding back, the blood, the gunfire, my father collapsing, the desperate race to save him. I could still hear my own heartbeat throbbing in my ears, still feel the cold fear curling around my spine.
I was on the balcony, elbows on knees, staring out across the grounds of the estate. The city was waking up, but here, inside these walls, it felt like time itself had stalled.
My phone vibrated on the stone railing.
I let it ring twice before I picked up, my fingers tightening on the phone when I read the name on the screen.
Rocco.
For a moment, I just stared. He wasn't the type to check in on people, not without an agenda.
I swiped to answer.
"You're calling early," I said, my voice rough with sleep.
"You sound like shit."
I let out a breath, a mix between a laugh and a scoff. "Good morning to you too, Rocco."
A pause. Then, "Is he awake?"
No chitchat. No wasted words. Straight down to business.
"No." My fingers clutched the fabric of my pants. "Doctor says he's stable, but…" I hesitated, hating the words that followed. "Still unconscious."
Rocco didn't answer right away. When he did, his tone had shifted, deeper, more controlled.
"And you?"
I opened my mouth to say I'm fine. It was reflexive, the response drilled into me through years of conditioning never to exhibit emotion.
But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, I closed my eyes, causing my jaw to unclench. "I don't know."
Silence.
Then
"You don't have to know right now."
His words impacted more than I needed them to.
I exhaled slowly, resting my head against the chair. The exhaustion I'd been fighting all night was finally starting to catch up with me, seeping into my bones. But I couldn't afford to stop moving, not when there were still so many variables.
"I hate this," I gritted my teeth.
"What?"
"Feeling like this. Sitting here while someone else is in control." My fingers tightened around the phone. "It's not me."
"You're not helpless, Fiorella." His tone was even. "Don't ever make yourself believe that."
A bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it. "Tell that to my father."
There was another silence.
"Do you think he'd want you doubting yourself now?"
The question hit home.
My father, wounded, unconscious, helpless, was still the toughest guy I knew. He'd spent his entire life preparing me for this world, turning me into someone who could handle whatever lay ahead.
He wouldn't want me breaking down now.
But something in my chest seized in pain.
"Why are you really calling me, Rocco?"
He could have said a dozen other things. Could have said he was checking in, or that he needed an update, or that he needed something.
But instead
"Because I wanted to hear your voice."
My stomach tightened.
Rocco De Luca wasn't the type of man who wasted words. When he spoke, he meant it.
For the first time since the attack, the ice that had my ribs in its grip cracked—just a bit.
I turned, back to the railing of the balcony, gazing up at the pre-dawn sky. The silence between us grew heavy with unsaid things.
He didn't fill it. He wasn't in a rush.
And somehow, that was worse.
I swallowed tightly. "You should rest, Rocco."
His voice dropped, low and gentle. "You first."
I exhaled. "Not happening."
"Figured." He didn't sound amused, just… aware.
For a second, I wanted to tell him to stop. To stop calling, to stop reading me so effortlessly, to stop making this seem like something I could count on.
Because I couldn't afford it.
Not now. Not ever.
But I didn't tell him to stop.
Instead, I just listened to the sound of his breath keeping time with mine, steady, unshakeable.
When he finally spoke again, his words weren't a suggestion. They were a promise.
“I’ll see you soon, Fiorella.”
And somehow, I knew he meant it.