Chapter 127 Fiorella
The house settled deep and slow into the evening's calm, after the night's turmoil. Inside, the corridors carried a whiff of smoke and cedar varnish, and the broken glass on the balcony had been swept away to leave cream pale smudges in the marble where the lights caught them.
I was wrapped in one of Rocco's shirts on the couch in what was once the east wing sitting room. The cushions were still dusty with soot; someone had tossed a blanket over the back. My nurse had bandaged the shoulder cut earlier that day and jotted instructions in neat, businesslike handwriting. Leo would not budge, his voice a low, watchful guard. He lounged in the armchair like a nurse pretending to relax: eyes alert when I thought he slept, fingers tapping out a rhythm only he could hear.
Rocco curled up on the floor in front of me, leaning against the sofa, a small, stubborn island of tranquility. He looked at me as men look at other men sleeping in war, not the soft, possessive look the world usually imagined, but a careful, respectful one that made the room more secure than the guns in the street. His jaw was unshaven, the dark bristles sparkling with the lamplight; his hand rested on my knee, drumming out a pattern I recognized he used when he was keeping himself together.
"You're too calm," he told me, and there was a wry humor to it that made the corner of his mouth crease.
"I had to be," I said. My voice surprised me, strong, low. The night had honed something inside me; fear had become a tool. . "If I hadn't kept my wits, Antonio's warehouse would have been the only news headline last night."
"You don't need to do this alone." He leaned in close, thumb tracing along the edge of the blanket. "You know that, don't you?"
I gasped a laugh almost out of me. "I know. But I'll not sit and be wrapped in cotton while my uncle plots my funeral from the comfort of his armchair." I glared up at him, my expression contorted. "If we do wait, they'll pull us apart. I want Philippe to know what it is to be exposed."
The expression that crossed his face was a mixture of relief and pride, the expression of a man when the plan they dreaded was needed is selected by the one they love. He bent toward me and kissed my temple, swift, devout, then pressed his forehead to mine.
——-
“East wing first,” I said, getting the agenda of tomorrow to fall into place in words. "We start repairs this morning. Full crew. No outside contractors he can bribe. I want metal framing, reinforced glass, blast-resistant doors wherever we can. Make it a statement, not rebuilt, but better. Two weeks, at least. I want our guests to look at that wing and know they hit the wrong house.".
Leo snapped a small notebook closed and already had a list forming in his head; appointments, suppliers, names. It was the sign of men who had a job to do: order and structure in a chaotic world. The worry in his eyes eased at my planning approach. He respected a woman who issued orders and checked up.
He grinned, slow. "You were always more skilled at this than I credited you with."
"I learned from the best," I said, and it was a tiny falsehood that neither of us wanted to answer.
Comfort came in both the ordinary and the sensational. Rocco made me tea because the nurse had prohibited brandy. Lemon and courage flavored it. He wrapped blankets around my feet and pillows around my back, and he worried over bandages like any lovesick man would. He sat there looking at me, with eyes that appeared to want to fix every thing the world had hurt, and I could feel the anger seethe within me into something far more useful, focus.
The phone's ring sliced through the comforting domesticity like a knife. Leo's head snapped up, fingers already finding a gun strap on the arm of his chair. Rocco glanced at me before he talked, a habit we shared; look-of-permission. He handed the phone to me.
"Victor," was the ID on the phone.
The name unfolded like a smell I’d been trying to forget: Phillipe’s eldest, the son who hid his arrogance behind clipped replies and a polished smile. He had always been the friendlier of the D’Angelo heirs in public, the softer edge that made the family’s cruelty easier to sell. In private he had the sharpness of his father, the same hunger, just arranged in a more pleasing package.
I pressed the green button reflexively. "Victor," I said coldly .
"Fiorella." His voice was too light, too cheerful for the hour and for the way that the city had been gnashing its teeth. The smile seeped into his words, slicing like a knife. "I heard last night was eventful."
“It was," I said to him. "You'll want to send my thanks on to your father."
He laughed , low and practiced. "Please. It was nothing.You and Rocco should know, men like my father don't lose easily."
I let the silence hang for a beat more than was polite, enjoying the air. "Oh, but he will eventually," I finally said. "What happened yesterday will not be forgotten.”
Victor's tone became gentle for effect. “I promise you. We will never forget how we nearly took out the delusional mafia Queen.” He mocked.
I was furious but I tried to remain calm despite it all.
“Well, at least I’m not tagged as the lying snake.”
“It’s a name I pride in dear cousin. You’ll go down just like your father did.”
I could feel the jaw of Rocco snap shut beside me. He didn't reach for the phone; he didn't need to. The threat in Victor's final words was unmistakable, the way a man hunches over a table and talks about another guy's funeral.
“You will never know my end Victor. Neither you nor your father. I will stand and watch as you are buried six feet under.”
Victor laughed. "We'll see."
His next words dropped like a slow-drawn sword across silk. "Soon, Fiorella, we will take what belongs to you. The estate, your authority, everything. And if you attempt to make it difficult, if you resist, then you will suffer the consequences. You can still do it the easy way though. A word is enough for the wise.”
The phone went dead. The line grew cold and silent in my ear. There was a small, ridiculous impulse to laugh, to just laugh out my anger.
I stood up slowly, bare feet on carpet. Rocco stood up behind me like a shadow; Leo thrust himself back from the chair. "He thinks he can kill me in one sentence," I said, tone flat.
"Victor's a coward," Leo said, spittle of contempt in his voice. "We’ll finish him."
Rocco's fingers wrapped around my fingers. "What do you want me to do?"
I looked at him then.He did not even blink as I said the words that had been burning in my chest since last night.
"Philippe's head," I said, the three words something I had not allowed myself to say before. "Him and his sons'.
“I want him exposed. I want him humiliated. I want him dead.”
Rocco's lips went flat. "You want his head," he said. Not a question.
"Yes.Now."
“It’s not going to be easy Fiorella.” Leo cautioned. “They will come for you.”
I stood taller, the words on my lips as a taunt. "Let them come," I said to them. The corners of my voice adopted a steel I had worked years perfecting by people underestimating me. "Bring them. I will not give myself up. And if they do, they will discover how hard I bite back."
Rocco's hand spread on my back, holding me in place. "We prepare to be besieged," he announced. "We turn the estate into a fortress. We isolate him from his dealers and supporters.”
"Then start now," I shouted. "Strip him bare until there is nothing left of him.”
He nodded, and the resolve that settled between us was like armor. The house sprang to life with planning and men mobilizing like gears. Orders were shouted; lists were compiled; calls were made. Schedules were altered. The day blended into retribution machinery.
My phone buzzed again. Another text message, no caller ID.
I opened it.
A line of text, from Phillipe.
Enjoy your reconstruction, Fiorella. Very soon, all of this will be ours. And then you'll have nothing to plan for, only the memory of a life you tried to keep.
I read it twice. I need to destroy him.
I lifted my head and screamed, full and raw, the sound of it ringing like an oath across the room:
"Bring me Philippe's head."