Chapter 133 Rocco
The De Luca estate was quiet in a way that few others were. It wasn't peaceful, the quiet was the kind that pressed upon you, heavy with the ghosts of old wars and unspoken worries. The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, gold-coating the marble floors and casting stark lines across the long dining table where my brothers and I sat.
Rafael leaned back in his chair, his face carved from the same rock that our house was constructed. Riccardo stood near the window, arms folded, the gleam of his watch face reflecting the sun as he stared out into the courtyard. The far-off laughter of Rosalia, rich and warm again drifted in from outside, and for a moment it was nearly as though the world was in equilibrium again.
Almost.
But the phone on my table reminded me otherwise. One text. One letter.
C.
That single letter burned into my screen like an open wound.
I hadn't told Fiorella yet. Not until I understood what it meant or was extremely sure who had sent it.
Rafael's voice sliced into my thoughts. "You're sure it's him?
"I don't know," I said, but my tone was enough to make him frown. "No one else used that initial. Not like that."
Riccardo finally turned away from the window. "Camillo was meant to be dead, Rocco. You saw what went down. We buried that bastard's chapter years ago."
I exhaled, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "We buried the story. Not the man."
Riccardo's eyebrows creased. "You think he's back? After what you did?"
"What I did," I repeated, jaw tight. "He shot me in the back, Riccardo. Literally. If he's alive, I didn't do the job."
Rafael glanced between us, the tension pulling taut the air. "He betrayed the family once. I'm not having that ghost creep back into our lives."
A glass hit the tabletop, Rafael's, still half-full of whiskey despite the daylight. His wife had brought it to him earlier, teasing him good-naturedly as an early drinker, but now her laughter was something fragile and far away.
"I don't want him anywhere near Rosalia," Rafael continued, the steel in his voice unyielding. "If Camillo's alive, we do it fast. I'll make the calls.".
Riccardo's eyebrow rose. "We don't even know it's him. Anyone could be trying to stir up ghosts."
"Ghosts don't text," I muttered.
Riccardo's mouth twisted at the corner. "They would, if they're angry enough."
Rafael's grim smile was fleeting. "Do you still have the gun he gave you?" he asked me.
I tipped my head, eyes narrowing. "Locked away. Haven't touched it since the day I learned what betrayal tastes like."
Once more, silence descended, heavy, thoughtful, dangerous.
Riccardo's hand brushed across the table, collecting a folded piece of paper , a map of the De Luca family's new trade routes, our freshly secured lines that Fiorella had helped negotiate through her associates. The remnants of her brilliance were everywhere now. So was the risk that came with her name.
“History has a way of repeating itself," Riccardo said, voice low. "Rafael's friend Lorenzo returned from the grave once before too. Now this. I only hope it does not end the same way."
Rafael tensed. "Lorenzo was different."
"Was he?" Riccardo said softly. "Or are we only pretending he was because it hurts less?"
No one responded. The silence was deafening.
I reclined back in my seat, letting the weight of their words sink in. Lorenzo had returned once, and when he did, he nearly destroyed Rafael's world. If Camillo returned, and he was anything like the man that I knew, it wouldn't be long before he would try to do the same to mine.
That meant Fiorella wasn't safe.
As I walked out of the meeting room, the mansion was alive again, the soft murmur of staff in the background, the warmth of afternoon sun spilling through stained glass, the scent of lemon polish on the mahogany banisters. But my thoughts were only on Fiorella. Her voice. Her passion. Her calm when everything around her was on fire.
She was the one person who could quiet the noise in my head.
By the time I got home, dusk had crept into the sky.
The penthouse lights were warm, golden, her presence everywhere. There were candles lit on the counter, soft music playing low on the speakers, and Fiorella was sitting curled on the couch in a cream robe, hair down, with a wine glass in her hand.
She looked up the moment I came in.
"There you are," she said softly, her voice a melody that tugged at something in my chest. "You were later than I anticipated."
"Meeting ran late," I said, slumping my jacket onto the chair.
Her eyes fluttered, catching the strain in my movements. "Bad news?"
I hesitated. "Complicated news."
She studied me for a moment, then set aside her wine and stood. The way she moved, slowly, deliberately, as if she could read me before I'd spoken a word, had my chest aching. She moved close, close enough that her scent surrounded me, and pressed her hand to my cheek.
"Rocco," she breathed, her eyes searching mine. "You've been carrying the world on your shoulders for far too long."
"It's what I do best."
"It's what will get you killed first."
My jawline was touched by her thumb, soft but anchoring. I held her wrist before she could pull back, my fingers outlining her pulse, steady, alive, mine.
"I got a message," I said finally.
She blinked. "From who?"
"I don't know. Just a letter. C'"
“What’s with these anonymous texts with just their first letter initials. Do you have any idea who it might be?” She asked and I nodded.
“I think it might be an ex friend, Camillo.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. "Camillo?"
"Camillo Sanchez."
She didn't say anything for a moment. Her hand fell from my face to my chest instead. “I thought he was dead." It’s no surprise that she has heard of him.
"So did I."
"What do you think he wants?"
I looked at her then, really looked at her, at the woman who'd survived fire, betrayal, loss , and I knew I couldn't lie to her. Not about this.
"Revenge," I said to her. "Same thing I'd want if I were him."
She was quiet for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Then we prepare."
I almost smiled. That was Fiorella, no panic, no fear, just determination tempered like steel.
But when I pulled her close, when her head was on my chest and her hands clawed at my shirt, something in me unraveled. I'd been trying to keep her safe by keeping one foot ahead of harm's way. Now harm was walking back into our lives in the name I once called brother.
She tilted her head back, her eyes fastening on mine. "We've been through worse," she whispered. "This won’t end us. Don't forget that."
Her words were a balm I didn't deserve. I bent and kissed her, slow, hard, needing her more than I'd ever admit. Her breath caught, her hands burrowing into my hair as she kissed me deeper, meeting me in hunger and defiance both. The tension between us melted into something heavier, more frantic. Whenever the world tried to rip us apart, we always found our way back through touch, through heat, through the unspoken promise that we were each other's anchor.
When I finally pulled away, her lips were pink, her eyes gentle.
"Don't disappear into your head," she whispered.
"I won’t," I lied. "I'm right here."
She smiled faintly. "Then stay. Think of me alone.”
⸻
Later, as she slept next to me, her hair spilled onto the pillow like silk. I lay awake, city lights tracing patterns on the ceiling. My phone vibrated again on the nightstand. A message.
No name. No number. Just words that stilled the air in my chest.
"Did you miss me, brother?"
— C.
My fist clenched around the phone.
There was one thing every instinct in me shouted.
Camillo was alive.
And he wasn't finished.