Chapter 128 Fiorella
The smoke smell continued to cling to the air. Even with last night's rain, it persisted, rich and bitter, curling through what was left of the broken stones of my once-east wing.
It charred walls.
Men walked in and out of the darkness, builders, masons, engineers, all wearing black uniforms .
"Raise the left beam three inches," I bellowed. My voice pierced hammers ringing off stone and the whine of generators. "It's off-center."
One of the workers glanced up, astonished, as if to ask why I was there. As if I hadn't stood here day after day since the fire, inspecting every brick, every detail, every decision.
I had been told to rest.
I couldn't.
Rocco's words echoed in my mind at sunrise: You haven't slept, Fiorella. Let them do it for a day.
But having them do it was how mistakes were made. And mistakes provided death in our world.
And that is where I stayed, in the wet morning air, leather gloves on my hands, hair pulled back into a ponytail, boots sinking slowly into the wet ground, watching the steel beam go into place.
Leo appeared from my right, clipboard in hand, furrowed brow. "East foundation will be available for pouring this evening. But the structure department tells me we are running short on foyer marble slabs, delivery is behind schedule."
"Divert the southern villa shipment," I instructed without breaking stride. "We'll sort out replacements later. Urgency is the issue."
He paused. "You certain you want to focus on this for now?”
I stared at him. "I lost three warehouses, Leo. I will not lose pace too."
He nodded, writing it down, and walked away.
Footsteps crunched softly on gravel behind me. Slow. Conscious. Familiar.
"You were supposed to be in bed.".
Rocco's voice swept over me like sunlight spilling through clouds. I didn't have to turn and look, he was standing there.
"I was," I said. "Then I recalled my house is missing a wall."
When I finally turned around, glancing over my shoulder, he was a few feet away, hands in pockets, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair was wind-tousled, softening the sharpness that otherwise scared people.
He didn't scare me.
He grounded me.
He came closer, the sound of his footsteps against the gravel silent but purposeful. "You've been out here since dawn," he stated, eyes surveying the grounds before returning to me. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"I'm fine."
"You always tell me that just before you lose it," he whispered.
I gave him a sidelong glance. "Then perhaps I've become adept at pretending."
He smiled faintly, though his eyes did not.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
His words made my chest tighten.
I stood and walked toward the half-built building, forcing my focus. "The east wing needs to be finished in two weeks. The storage closet is in need of the heavy steel, and I want the panic room operational next week."
"You just had someone try to burn you alive," he whispered beside me. "You don't have to rebirth the world in one night."
I exhaled. "I can't afford not to."
We both stood, side by side, for a while, as employees flowed past. The tension lingered, combined with smoke, and fresh determination.
And then I felt him behind me, close enough so that I could feel the warmth from his body. His arm moved across mine in a gentle touch before it descended to lock our fingers together.
"Sit there," he whispered, guiding me over to the edge of the scaffolding where a bench sat beneath the protection of a tarp. "For one minute."
I had wanted to protest, but my legs ached more than I cared to admit. So I let him take the lead.
He sat beside me, elbows on knees, leaning forward, watching the rebuild in silence. Again, neither of us said anything. The steady thump of hammers and saws filled the space between us.
Then he broke the silence. "You're doing good."
I looked at him, surprised.
He observed the location. "Most people would've left it smoldering for weeks before ever thinking about rebuilding. You—" He nodded toward the building. "You took a graveyard and turned it into a blueprint."
Soft something played in his tone. Admiration. Respect.
"Maybe I'm stubborn," I said.
"Maybe," he said gently. "But it's beautiful.".
When I didn't respond, he leaned forward, brushing a stray piece of hair from my cheek and leaving his hand there. "You need to rest, amore mio. You've been through too much the past few days. Let me handle the contractors. Leo can handle the schedules."
"I can't just sit here, Rocco," I said, turning to him full-on. "Not after what Phillipe did. Not after Victor called me to taunt me."
His jaw muscles tensed. "He called again?"
I nodded, pulling out my phone from my coat pocket. "He wanted to remind me of all I build back, they'll burn down again."
Rocco's hand rested on my thigh, firm. "Then I'll make sure his ashes get tossed into the next foundation you pour."
The curl of my mouth at the corner. "You always know what to say."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "No, Fiorella. You just always give me a reason to say it."
There it was, that gentle, lethal softness he used.
I leaned against him for a moment, and the cacophony of the rebuild faded into the distance. His hand stroked slow lines across my back, grounding me. Cedar and smoke hung on his shirt.
"I just want it done," I panted. "The east wing. The restoration. The revenge. All of it."
"And it will be," he promised. "But not if you destroy yourself first doing it."
He reached forward, pressing his finger under my chin to tilt my face up, forcing me to look into his eyes. "You're still healing."
"I'm not broken," I whispered.
His eyes softened. "I never told you that you were. But even steel cools slowly if it's going to bear weight."
I seethed at how well he was arguing.
So I didn't respond, rested my head on his shoulder and gave myself the small liberty of doing nothing. Just for one minute. His hand stayed where it was on my knee, thumb tracing lazy patterns that caught my breath in my throat.
We stayed like that until Leo walked over once more, hacking stiffly. "Sorry to interrupt you, boss. The mason needs permission for the new face design."
I got up, business as usual again. "Bring it over here."
He handed me the tablet, and I scrolled through the plans, white marble, reinforced glass, gold trim. A new face for an old empire.
"Approve it," I said, signing off with a stylus. "No delays.".
Leo nodded and took off again.
As soon as he'd disappeared, Rocco faced me, half smiling, half impressed. "You switch from princess to queen in the space of a heartbeat."
I forced a weak smile. "It's a survival tactic."
He leaned in close, his breath in my ear. "You're beautiful when you own a room."
The sun was going down when the last crew finished.
I leaned against the scaffolding, arms crossed, watching the work of the day finish. A feeling of satisfaction crept into my chest. Progress. Order. Control.
Rocco moved up behind me, his arms fitting into my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"You did it," he breathed.
"We did it," I amended softly.
He kissed along the side of my neck, slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that promised and protected. "Come in, bella. Dinner is served."
I nodded, stepping back with him toward the big house.
Dinner was served on the big dining table with candles and flowers all around.
He pulled a chair out for me, and I sat. He filled my cup, then sat next to mine. Every gesture gentle, deliberate, his means of telling me I love you without ever using those words.
You don't have to carry all of it alone," he said at last, watching me take a cautious swallow.
"I know," I panted. "But I have to."
He reached out to slide his hand along the back of my hand, his thumb tracing the curve of my bones. "Then at least let me carry you when you're tired."
The room fell silent again, except for the gentle snap of flames from the fire.
And for a fleeting moment, I allowed peace.
Until my phone buzzed.
I frowned, picking it up. The message had no name, just a number I did not recognize. A short message. Two words, followed by a single initial.
You’re doing well, Fiorella.
—N
My blood ran cold.
Rocco caught the shift immediately. "Who is it?"
I glared at the screen, the glow of the letter N mirrored in my wine glass.
"Don't know," I said slowly. "But I think someone just reminded me that peace doesn't last very long in our world."