Chapter 114 Fiorella
The morning air was thick, turbulent, the kind that appeared to hold secrets in its gust.
Rocco hadn't uttered a single word during the drive. His fingers drummed once against the steering wheel, the lone external sign of the tempest I knew seethed beneath that impassive, unrumpled facade. Jaw clenched, eyes staring at the road, the minute glint of sun off the hood of the vehicle.
The D'Angelo compound appeared in the distance like an open sore, tall iron fences with ivy growing on them, the gold crest glinting in the sunlight. My stomach turned over as the guards parted as soon as they saw me.
The last time I'd been here, I was the little, obedient niece, the one that Phillipe had loved to display as the future of the family name. Today, I was the woman he'd tried to ruin.
Rocco drove into the circular driveway and cut off the engine. The silence that lingered was stifling.
“You sure about this?” he asked, finally turning to me. His voice was low, calm, too calm. The kind of calm that only came before bloodshed.
I nodded. “He has answers. And I’m done letting him pull strings from the shadows.”
Rocco’s gaze lingered on me a beat longer, searching. Then he gave a single nod and stepped out of the car.
Within the mansion, everything was exactly as it had been, shining marble floor, soaring chandelier, portraits of men who had thought that their own legacy made them gods. But something in everything felt colder now.
A butler appeared almost at once, stiff and flustered. "Miss Fiorella. Signor De Luca. The master has been waiting for you."
Of course he had.
Phillipe didn't operate in terms of surprise unless he himself was doing it.
He was already seated when we entered the drawing room, back straight as a board, whiskey tumbler in one hand, blade-cut smile. His sons sprawled around him, both of them sporting expressions that danced somewhere between arrogance and indolence.
"Niece," he said smoothly, rising up with over-theatrical gallantry. "And the infamous Rocco De Luca. I must say, the two of you make quite a stir nowadays."
Rocco did not extend a hand. Did not even feign civility. "We're not here for small talk."
Phillipe laughed, indicating toward the settee. "Then by all means, let's go straight into where you accuse me of something.”
My heart pounded, but I kept my tone level. "You signed for a shipment in my name and with my company seal. You stole from me, and from him." I pointed at Rocco, whose silence was more than any words could have conveyed.
Phillipe swirled his drink, unmoved. "Such an unpleasant word, stole. I'd say it was just redirecting resources where they were due, back to the family."
My nails bit into my palm. "You thief. You destroyed our business."
His smile grew wider, cold and satisfied. "You mean his business."
Something snapped in me. "Ours.".
He snorted, a sharp, mocking one. "That's what you're using now? Ours? You actually think the De Lucases will ever take you as one of them? You're a pawn, Fiorella. You've always been one, to me or to him."
Rocco inched over beside me. His fingers brushed mine, not soft, but reassuring.
Phillipe picked up on it. His grin never faltered, but his sons subtly shifted a little taller, reading the air.
“You've been keeping busy," Rocco finally said, voice as calm as ice. "Dock signatures, counterfeit seals, diverting cargo. You went out of your way to do her in, to make it seem like betrayal."
Phillipe's eyebrow rose. "I simply did what she was too naive to do, preserve her reputation. The D'Angelo name is perishing, Rocco. My proposal would've saved that. But she'd rather be the De Luca toy than the D'Angelo queen."
The insult dangled between us.
I advanced, cautiously. "Your proposal was to marry me off to one of your abject sons. To make me a pawn for your greed."
His eyes blazed, but his grin persisted. "Marriage has always been a transaction, dear. You should know that by now. Even Rafael’s marriage to Rosalia is but a transaction, what makes you think you are special to Rocco.”
Rocco's tone cut through like a knife. "Watch yourself."
Phillipe leaned back, pretending laughter but I caught the flicker of doubt. "Ah, there it is. The De Luca temper. Tell me, Rocco, how long before you decide that she's more trouble than she's worth?"
Rocco's expression didn't change, but the silence drawn between us afterwards was so bitter, it tasted like blood.
"I think we're done here," I said coldly.
But Phillipe wasn't finished. He stood, setting the glass down with measured slowness. "You think strutting in here makes you brave. But you're still my blood, Fiorella. And blood has a tendency to call home."
"Not yours," I said quietly.
Something dark flashed in his eyes, something meaner than his customary conceit. "You shouldn't have crossed me, girl. You've made enemies you don't even see coming."
Rocco stepped forward then, his presence swallowing the space between them. “You so much as look in her direction again, and I’ll end your line myself.”
The younger son Arman, shifted as if to speak, but one look from Rocco silenced him instantly. The tension in the room thickened until it was almost unbearable.
Phillipe exhaled, calculated and deliberate. "You've grown too accustomed to threats. But you've never remembered who your kind learned from."
Rocco did not answer. His stare never wavered from Phillipe's, inscrutable.
I used the pause to step in close, voice cold. "You want to play family politics? Fine. But let me tell you something, I'm not that girl you controlled anymore. You come after me again, after us, and I'll personally make sure every empire you've created gets dismantled with your name on it."
His mouth twisted into a sly smile. "Be cautious, Fiorella. You sound just like him."
"Good," I said to him. "That means you'd better be afraid."
I whirled before he could catch sight of the way my hands trembled, not with fear, but with anger. Rocco's hand rested at the small of my back, shoving me toward the front entrance. His touch was quiet, strong reassurance amidst tension.
But as we reached the foyer, Phillipe's voice followed us, soft, venomous.
"You think you've escaped my clutches? You'll see soon enough, no one survives a D'Angelo war and lives to tell the tale."
I locked up. Rocco didn't.
He moved his head a fraction, speaking in a low, deadly tone. "Then God have mercy on you dying before I can get to you."
We left before Phillipe could say anything back.
The guards' gaze dropped as we passed by, they sensed it too, the snappish tension that lingered long after we'd stepped out of the house.
Outside, the clouds were massing again, filling the sky quickly and heavily. Rocco flung open the car door for me, his jaw tight, knuckles bleached.
We didn't utter a sound as we slid down the winding road from the estate. But the quiet between us wasn't empty, it was vibrant, heavy with what both of us knew was going to occur.
This wasn't over.
When the gates of the D'Angelo estate disappeared from view, I caught sight of Rocco's reflection in the glass, calm, unbreakable, but with fury burning just under it.
Phillipe thought he could scare us. He thought threats and lineage would cow me into submission.
He was wrong.
I stared out on the horizon, heart now serene, the first glow of revenge burning in my chest.
It’s time to make him pay.