Chapter 113 Rocco
Meetings had gobbled up the entire first half of my day. Rafael had paced like a hurricane, Riccardo tensed and we were all just pissed. The Valenti name kept popping up wherever we checked. Every corner, every security tape, every familiar face was studied and discussed.
When I exited the conference room, my head was heavy with tension, but one thought made me calm, Fiorella.
She'd barely said a word that morning, she was so sleepy. I'd left her in our bed, told her to rest. Now I just wanted to see her, to remind myself that there was something in this house that wasn't tainted by blood or betrayal.
But as I stepped into our suite and pushed the door open, I caught myself.
It was empty.
The bed was empty, the sheets still smooth, a faint trace of her perfume just beginning to recede from the air. Her shoes were gone, and the silk kimono she'd been wearing over her attire hung slumped across the back of a chair, one arm dangling as though she'd precipitately departed.
An irritation pulse swelled in my chest. She wouldn't just leave. Not without telling me.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over her number, and then my phone rang as I was about to call her.
Unknown number.
"De Luca," I growled, bringing it to my ear.
A nervous man's tone, strained. "Signore, it's Mark from the eastern docks. There's been a problem with the shipment."
My back stiffened. "What kind of problem?"
"The arms container that was supposed to arrive last night, it's gone. The drivers never showed up. The tracker is dead. We found one of the trucks outside the port, and it was empty."
I said nothing for a moment then I slowly asked. "You're saying that the guns I paid for in the D'Angelo transaction have vanished."
"Yes, signore. It was cleared for release in your partner's name, D'Angelo Holdings, as seen on the port manifest. We assumed it was your authorization."
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
"Fiorella doesn't ship cargo without me," I replied nonchalantly. "Who did it get authorized by?"
"The form was signed in her uncle's name. Phillipe D'Angelo.".
That name was enough to make my blood run cold and hot at the same time. Phillipe, that sick bastard.
"Give me the papers and the tape from the pier," I ordered, my tone so icy it might just cut through the line. "Every second, every clearance code, every name that came in contact with that manifest. And if one shred of proof disappears, Mark…"
I didn't go on. I didn't have to.
"Yes, signore. Immediately."
The call ended.
I was there for a full second, staring out the window as the realization took hold further. Phillipe hadn't just acted, he'd undercut. The man had hijacked my guns deal in Fiorella's name, her company being the knife to slit our throat.
The bourbon glass on the end table shook when I struck my hand against the wall beside it. The sound echoed through the room.
That son of a bitch had declared war.
I paced when the door finally opened.
Fiorella walked in, her hair wild from the wind, a faint frown creasing her face. She stopped when she saw me , my jaw locked, my arms crossed over the back of a chair.
"You were gone," I growled.
Her eyes darted to me, cautious. "I went to the mansion. To get clothes."
"Go on."
Her lips parted in shock at my voice. Then she sighed and dumped her purse on the bed. “I went down to the docks to check into it. Leo called. Said the shipment had an issue."
Of course she would. She's always trying to save the day herself. Always marching into the fire.
I walked across the room deliberately, every step calculated. "And?"
She set her chin, gazing straight at me without flinching. "Someone hijacked the cargo while it was still in port. The containers were off-loaded and refilled. Clearance was granted by Phillipe."
That one word was enough to destroy what little control I had left.
I was laughing hard, humourlessly. "Of course it did."
Her eyebrow creased. "Rocc,”
"Of course it was him!" I stopped short, pacing again, hair caught in fingers. "The scoundrel's been around us waiting for his chance. First, he tried to ruin us, and then this? He used your surname to rip me off, Fiorella."
She flinched slightly at the brusqueness of my tone but didn't step back. "I know what he's doing. He's trying to make you question me."
I came to a standstill before her. Her eyes were steady, tired, but unbroken. She wasn't scared. She was angry, and it struck me like a wave of recognition.
She wasn't the problem. She never was.
I breathed slowly, my voice low. "I don't doubt you."
Her shoulders relaxed, but only slightly.
"It's him," I continued quietly now. "Every time I think he's finished, he finds another way to dig his way into our lives. I should have hung up on him when I had the chance."
She drew nearer, her hand trailing down my arm. "Then let's end it now."
I stared at her for a long time. There was no doubt in her voice, only steel.
She did mean it.
My anger shifted, burning down to ice. "No. If we charge in, he'll expect us. He's already two steps ahead, Fiorella. This was not a question of money. He wanted to humiliate us, make us seem vulnerable."
Her eyes flared black. "Then we'll make him regret that he underestimated us."
The way she said us, it affected me.
I leaned up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. My hand remained on her jaw, the pressure loosening in me to something else, resolve.
"I'll fix this," I whispered. "But next time, don't just take off and not give me a heads-up. You go striding into a port controlled by people your uncle has sworn his allegiance to, and I might never see you again."
She swallowed, the defiance softening a little. "I can take care of myself."
"I know that," I said. "But that doesn't mean I won't worry."
For a moment, the tension between us shifted , not strained, not angry anymore, but heavy with unspoken words. I could see exhaustion in her eyes, the same weight I felt mirrored in her.
I caressed her face, thumb skimming over her cheekbone. "He thinks he's clever," I murmured. "Stealing your name like that. But he just made the biggest mistake of his life."
Her mouth dropped open. "What are you going to do?"
"Find out how deep down he's dug himself in." My voice was even now, measured. "And then I'm going to dig him up, piece by piece."
Her hand slipped into mine. "I'm with you."
I nodded, my forehead against hers. For a moment, all of it, the missing cargo, the treachery, Valenti receded. There was just her. Her scent. Her warmth.
And then my phone rang again.
Riccardo's name glowed on the screen.
I sat up, answering. "Yeah."
“Rocco," Riccardo said sharply. "We just got word from the docks. The video shows Phillipe's men offloading the containers early morning. Two trucks left with his emblem on them, D'Angelo freight. Do you want us to tail it?"
My eyes went to Fiorella. Her expression indicated she already knew the answer.
"Follow it," I said in a low voice, deadly calm. "But don't touch him yet.".
Riccardo paused. "And if he makes another move?"
"Then we remind him crossing a De Luca does not end in negotiation."
When the phone call finished, Fiorella still stood staring at me, nervous but resolute.
"This is no longer business," I told her. "He's declared war on both families. And I'm don playing defense."
Her grip on my hand began to hurt. "Then let's strike back."
Thunder rumbled on the horizon outside distant and ominous.
I looked out of the tall windows of the De Luca estate, storm clouds brewing over the hills, and for the first time that day, I nearly smiled.
Phillipe D'Angelo wished to play god with fire.
He was going to burn.