Chapter 124 Fiorella
Smoke still clung to me long after I’d left the scene.
Even after the paramedic had cleaned the scrape on my shoulder, after the cool antiseptic burned across my skin, the scent of fire, of charred wood and iron, refused to leave. It sat in my lungs, heavy, reminding me how close I’d been to never walking out of that warehouse alive.
Leo sat opposite me in the mansion's sitting room, arm bandaged, eyes unfocused. Ash smudged one side of his face, a cut on the left side of his face. He'd been hit worst of all, covering me when the roof collapsed. A smear of blood on his cuff, not much, but enough to make me nauseous every time I saw it.
"You should rest," I murmured, my own voice strange, like it wasn't mine. "The doctor prescribed—"
"I'm fine," he cut me off, his head shaking, his jaw clamped tight. "You were almost burnt alive, Fiorella. I'm not sleeping tonight."
I tried to argue, to tell him he must sleep, but the words shriveled up before they could leave my tongue. Because in all honesty, I wasn't sure I would, either.
The fire had been too deliberate. Too clean. The flames had eaten through steel beams in minutes, as if guided by purpose. I’d seen explosions before, accidents, revenge plays, insurance schemes, but this one was different. It was personal.
I ran a trembling hand through my hair, still smelling vaguely of smoke. My dress had been removed and exchanged for one of my own silk robes, but even that could not disguise the exhaustion seeping beneath my skin. "Whomever did this was making a statement."
Leo nodded brusquely. "They wanted to kill you."
I hadn't even had a chance to react when the screech of wheels outside made us both turn. My chest constricted. Thunderous footsteps echoed through the entrance hall, fast, unsteady, panicked. And Rocco appeared in the doorway.
He found me immediately. Relief tore across his face so strongly that it looked like anguish.
He didn't speak. He just came across the room in furious, sweeping steps and pulled me into his arms.
His arms wrapped around me so tightly it almost hurt, but I didn't care. I nestled my head into his chest, inhaling him, allowing his warmth to fill the lingering cold of fear. His heart pounded loudly and rapidly against my ear.
For what felt like three whole minutes, we stood there without moving. He just held me, his fingers holding the back of my robe, his arm around my waist as if letting me go would be to shatter some miracle that I was alive.
And when he finally spoke, his tone was rough, lower than usual, thick with feeling he did not even try to hide.
"Never do that to me again," he breathed, his mouth on the crown of my head. "You scared the shit out of me, Fiorella."
"I wasn't exactly anticipating a warehouse explosion," I grumbled into his chest, my speech muffled by his shirt.
He leaned back enough to look at me, his thumb tracing the small cut on my cheek. His jaw flexed, eyes raking mine as if he didn't think I was actually there yet. "If something had happened to you—" He breathed in a little too hard. "—I don't know what I would have done."
That raw honesty in his voice constricted my throat. I leaned up, my hand against his jaw, feeling the soft scratch of his stubble beneath it. "I'm here, Rocco. I'm fine."
He shook his head a second time, his eyes black and weighted with all that he wasn't saying. "You could've died."
"But I didn't." I laughed lightly, shivering. "You still have me."
His lips opened, as if to protest, but he kissed me.
Slowly at first, hesitantly, as if he still feared I would break beneath him. And then deeper, hungrier, until the taste of smoke and salt and fear opened up to something desperate and breathing.
I clung to him, fingers grabbing onto his shirt as he lightly pushed me against the wall beside the window. The kiss wasn't desperate, it was grounding. Every press of his lips carried with it the reminder that we'd both survived another storm, that I was still his and he was still mine.
He broke the kiss to push his forehead against mine, gasping. "You have no idea what you do to me," he breathed, following the curve of my jaw with the pad of his thumb. "Every time you put yourself in danger, every time you scare me like this, I feel it here." He pressed my hand against his chest, over his heart. "And I don’t won't lose you, Fiorella. Not to them. Not to anyone."
I swallowed hard, feeling tears prick the back of my eyes. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed me again, slower this time. Tender. His lips brushed the corners of my mouth, my cheek, my forehead, like he was memorizing me all over again. And when he finally pulled away, he didn’t leave. He stayed, refusing to let me out of his sight.
The rest of the evening passed in quiet comfort.
He ran a bath for me, made me let him wash the ash off my body himself, his fingers gentle, his voice gentle. And then he half-carried me to bed in defiance of my protests and wrapped me in his arms beneath the covers. Rocco De Luca was not interested in revenge or strategy, he just wanted to hold me.
"Sleep," he breathed, giving me a soft kiss on the temple. "I've got you."
And I let myself believe that was so for a few moments.
But before sleep could begin to blur the corners of my mind, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I reached for it groggily, expecting Leo or one of my guards.
When I saw the name of the sender, my blood froze.
Phillipe.
The message read:
Did you survive the blast, niece? Or should I already start making funeral arrangements for you?
The words blurred together as my heart pounded, my chest tightening with a fury so great.
Rocco rolled over beside me, half-asleep, unaware.
I looked at the screen, the light glinting off my shaking hand, and I knew one thing.
This wasn't finished.
I'd make Phillipe regret that I hadn’t died in the fire.