Chapter 13 Rocco
The wall clock was ticking too loudly. Or maybe it was just me.
I was in Rafael's office, the scent of his cologne and fresh cigars heavy in the air. He was on the phone, speaking Italian to one of our foreign contacts. Riccardo was opposite me, tapping out a message on his phone, probably to one of his side interests.
I should've been focused on numbers, shipments, and security.
But my mind kept drifting.
The warehouse ambush.
Her.
Fiorella D'Angelo.
Fire and steel wrapped in silk.
A mouth that didn't know how to submit.
I clenched my teeth.
No one spoke to me the way she did. No one dared push back, matching my cold with their own heat.
And I liked it.
More than I should.
Rafael ended his call.
His eyes narrowed on me. Calculating. He knew me better than anyone.
"There's the annual Venetian Ball next Saturday," he said offhandedly, as one might mention the weather.
I scowled. "And?"
"The D'Angelos will be there."
I didn't say a word.
"I think," Rafael continued, leaning back in his chair with a faint smile, "you should make an appearance."
I exhaled through my nose, rubbing a hand over my face.
"Since when do I get dressed up for parties full of arrogant men and fake smiles?"
"Since we're partnering with one of the most powerful families in Europe," Riccardo cut in without looking up from his phone. "And since Fiorella will be there."
My head snapped in his direction.
He smirked, finally meeting my gaze. "What? You think we don't notice? You're smitten."
I didn't say anything.
Rafael's smile widened.
"Don't you want to know what she'll be wearing to the ball…" he trailed off, promising.
I could picture it without difficulty.
Fiorella, not in her trademark dark outfit, but in a dress. Long, streamlined, dangerously sharp in every curve.
A slit up one leg, high.
Bare shoulders, exposed skin.
Jewels glinting at her neck like a collar only she could pull off.
I didn't enjoy what that thought was doing to me.
I rocked back in my chair, exhaling slowly.
"And what do you want me to do there, precisely?"
"Observe," Rafael said to me. "Make the right connections. See who falls where. And if she holds court in the manner in which she's meant to."
"And if she doesn't?"
Rafael's smile became chilly.
"Then we improvise."
Riccardo set down his phone.
"I don't trust them," he said flatly. "Alliances are dangerous. Especially when they're with families like the D'Angelos. They're snakes."
"So are we," I noted.
"Difference is," Riccardo leaned forward, eyes gloomy, "we know we are."
I said nothing, my mind already elsewhere.
The ball.
Fiorella.
Would she be as deadly in silk as she was with a gun?
Would she rule that room full of men twice her age and thrice her ego?
Or would she falter, cracks showing beneath the armour?
And if she did falter…
Would I care?
Or would I take pleasure in watching her break?
I gritted my teeth.
No.
Something about her said she wouldn't falter.
She'd rise.
She'd make them choke on their underestimation.
I stood abruptly.
"I'll go."
Rafael nodded in approval.
"Good. Dress sharp. You'll need to look every inch the predator."
I was halfway out the door when Riccardo spoke up behind me.
"And Rocco…"
I halted, hand on the door handle.
"Don't lose your head over her."
I made no reply.
Because I wasn't sure I hadn't already started.
As I stepped into the hallway, I couldn't shake the picture from my mind.
Fiorella D'Angelo.
A viper in silk.
A challenge I was dangerously eager to take on.
Would she beg in the dark, or would she command?
Would she submit, or would she fight for control, tooth and nail, as she did in business?
I almost smiled.
Either way, it would be explosive.
And I couldn't wait to watch.
Night crept in, slow and thick, like a loaded gun pressed into the nape of my neck.
The Venetian Ball.
I never had a taste for things like this — all polished shoes and poisonous smiles, hands shaking over knives hidden in tailored suits. But tonight was different.
I adjusted my cufflinks, silver flashing on the black silk of my suit.
I always wore black.
Power. Death. Control.
And tonight, I was going to ensure everyone recalled who I was.
Riccardo whistled low as he walked behind me in the mirror.
"Sharp. Gonna have the ladies weep and the men sweat."
I ignored him.
Rafael came into my room, already wearing navy and gold, with Rosalia by his side. She radiated — sleek, sophisticated, yet warm in a way that had no place in this chilly world.
His hand on her lower back was gentle in a way that had me gritting my teeth.
My brother, the once merciless kingpin, now tamed.
I couldn’t imagine being that soft.
Not with someone like Fiorella.
Rafael’s eyes met mine in the mirror.
“You ready?”
I adjusted my jacket, smoothing out a crease that wasn’t there.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The ride to the venue was tense, silent but heavy with unspoken words.
Rosalia chattered quietly about who would be there, which politicians would show their faces, and which old families would pretend not to despise one another.
But my mind was still on her.
Fiorella D'Angelo.
Would she wear black, like me, in subdued power?
Or blood-red, a danger to every man in the room?
Would she walk in with her head held high and eyes freezing cold, making grown men shrink under her gaze?
The car stopped.
Guards opened the door, and I stepped into a world of blinding chandeliers, marble stairs, and muted voices oozing with venom.
Inside, the ballroom was the scene of a fairytale written by a murderer.
Golden light.
Champagne towers.
Diamonds glinting on wrists that had signed death warrants.
My brothers flanked me as we entered, but I hardly noticed them.
I scanned the room once, twice.
Where was she?
Powerful men approached us, hands extended, false smiles on their lips.
I shook hands.
Exchanged small talk.
But I didn't care.
The room stirred.
A buzz started at the grand staircase.
Every head turned.
And then I spotted her.
Fiorella D'Angelo descended the marble staircase like a queen ascending to her throne.
Her dress was black, of course it was, but it shone with hints of midnight blue under the crystal lights. A thigh-high slit revealed toned, never-ending legs in stilettos that could kill. Her shoulders were bare, her collarbone flashing diamonds.
Her hair was pulled back, showing the smooth line of her neck, but tendrils coiled around her face, softening the steel in her eyes.
Those eyes.
They scanned the crowd for me.
Locked.
And didn't waver.
Not an inch of doubt.
Not a tremor of fear.
The room seemed to divide before her, men stepping aside for her like soldiers for a general.
She was flame in silk.
A predator in disguise.
I felt heat coil low in my stomach.
She walked slowly, each step measured and deadly, her eyes still locked on mine.
My heart beat once.
Hard.
And then
"Rocco De Luca," she said, her voice smooth as sin and twice as dangerous.
"I see you clean up well."
I smirked.
"Likewise."
She extended her hand.
I took it.
And the moment our skin touched...