Chapter 102 Fiorella
The sun had begun to fall behind the high walls of my estate, leaving streaks of rose and amber in its wake. The whole estate was quiet. My desk was littered with open folders and yellowed charts of lands, Leo's most recent reports glaring back at me, but I hadn't worked on any of it for longer than an hour.
My thoughts kept returning to him.
Rocco.
Every time I would close my eyes, I could envision the look on his face that night, the anguish behind that cold, unwavering composure of his. I was angry about it. Angry that it was I who had brought it to his face.
I got a notification on my phone , breaking the silence. I grabbed it with a racing heart to discover only a text from one of my men to confirm receipt of the shipment intact.
Nothing from him. Nothing all day.
I groaned, slumping further into the leather armchair. Pathetic, maybe, the underworld's most feared woman, sitting beside her phone like a lovesick schoolgirl. But for the love of all that is holy, he wasn't anybody.
I didn't let myself have a change of heart before I went and opened our chat, writing out the words.
Fiorella: I miss you.
I stared at the blinking cursor. Too simple. Too exposed. But I posted it anyway. And then another message before my nerve deserted me.
Fiorella: Sorry things turned out the way they did. I should have spoken up earlier. I miss you so much.
I hung up, tapping my nails against the desk. One minute passed. Then five. Then ten. Silence.
A numb ache developed in my chest. I told myself he was occupied, he had business to attend to, meetings, men to order. But Rocco always answered, even when he was in the middle of a war zone.
I slumped back against my hands, massaging my temples. Maybe this was it, the stillness before the crash and burn. Maybe my secret was the crack in the foundation that he couldn't overlook.
"Fiorella," Leo bellowed from the doorway. "You've been sitting there for hours. Should I have something sent up for dinner?"
"No," I breathed. "Not hungry."
He stood there for a moment, looking at me with intensity, before nodding and leaving me alone. I wanted Rocco, to cuddle with him and just hold him. Maybe I should check if he’s at the penthouse or call Rosalia to ask if he’s at the estate.
By the time the evening fully arrived, the pain was something heavier. I left the office and walked towards the balcony, the one with a view of the vineyards. The moonlight spread itself over the land in great sweeps as though spilled silver. I pulled my robe tight and exhaled, the chill air gliding along my skin.
My phone buzzed again. My heart skipped, but it wasn't a text. It was a notification from the security feed: motion at the front gate.
I stared , opening it, and froze.
There he was.
Rocco.
The camera filmed him alighting from his vehicle, shoulders tense but movements slow and calculated. Even from that fuzzy angle, I could tell the fatigue, the determination. The way he still moved as if he owned every inch of the floor that he was on.
My chest tightened. Without knowing it, I ran downstairs cheerfully disregarding Leo's raised eyebrow as I whizzed past.
The front door swung open just as he was coming up to reach it. For a second, we just stood there, me barefoot in my robe, him in this dark shirt rolled up to his elbows, the faintest of stubble on his jaw.
We didn't speak.
Then he released a soft breath and came in, crossing the distance between us in a couple of steps. His eyes raked mine, no anger this time, but something more subdued, intense.
"I read your messages," he said after a second, his voice gruff.
"I wasn't sure if you did," I breathed.
"I did." His hand caressed the side of my face, thumb tracing my cheek. "And I wanted time to think."
I swallowed, my throat tightening. "And now?"
He regarded me, silent for a moment. "Now I know that I can't leave you alone. Even when I'm mad at you. Even when you make me crazy."
A nervous half-laugh escaped me, half-sob, half-sigh of relief. "You came back."
He smiled weakly. "You think I could ever leave?"
Before I could answer, he pulled me in, forehead to forehead. His scent, smoke and whiskey and something very Rocco surrounded me. His heartbeat against mine, hard and real.
"I despise secrets," he whispered in my mouth. "But I love you more."
The words hit me more than I'd expected, and when his lips found mine, I melted against him completely, all tension, all fear, unspooling with that single touch.
The kiss lingered, intentional, a reconciliation in quiet. Then deeper. Hotter. His fingers curled to the back of my head, my hands grasping his shirt as if I could anchor him there forever.
When we finally separated, gasping, he rested his forehead against mine again.
"Next time," he murmured, "no secrets. Promise me."
"I promise."
He nodded, the rock in his expression softening. "Good. Because whatever comes next, we face it together."
I had no idea what "next" was — the threats of the uncle, the families who continued to rebel against me, the ghosts of our fathers and enemies who never stayed dead, but in that moment, with his arms around me and the taste of his kiss still on my lips, I believed him.
The world could wait until tomorrow night.
"I've missed you so much," I breathed, barely a whisper.
His gaze softened. "Then don't make me stay away again."
And then he kissed me.
Not gently, like he had before, but with each tension, each ache, each forgiveness neither of us knew how to say. His lips owned my mouth, slow but ravenous, his fingers wrapping into my hair as he deepened the kiss. I melted in his arms, clutching at his shirt like letting him go would break me apart all over again.
The world whirled. My pulse throbbed beneath his hand as he pulled me down the hallway, never releasing me. With each step, it was a whispered surrender, a concession. When my spine pressed against the bedroom door, he hesitated, examining my face as though for permission he didn't need to ask.
I nodded, gasping.
He released a hard breath, pressing his forehead into mine. "You drive me crazy, Fiorella."
"Then we're even," I whispered.