Chapter 139 Rocco
The message glared up at me from the screen like a whisper from the grave.
You think you’re going to live a happy life and get married, don’t fool yourself Rocco. Say hi to Riccardo for me or I might just do it myself.
I read it twice. Three times. My chest tightened.
The same insignia, the same mocking tone.
Camillo.
Fiorella shifted beside me, the soft warmth of her skin grounding me in the chaos suddenly stirring in my head. Her hand brushed my chest, tracing lazy circles as if she could smooth the tension away.
“Rocco?” Her voice was heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
I forced a steady breath and kissed her forehead. “Nothing you need to worry about, bella. Go back to sleep.”
Her eyes searched mine, suspicion flickering there, but she didn't push. She trusted me-maybe too much. Turning onto her side, she curled against my arm. Minutes later, her breathing slowed again.
But my mind was not still.
I slid out of bed, being careful not to stir her, and crossed the dark room. The city beyond the windows was quiet, washed in that strange pre-dawn blue that makes everything look like a memory.
Camillo. The bastard, whom I had once called brother.
He'd been closer to me than anyone once. We'd built the early De Luca operations together-before greed, betrayal, and a bullet to my back turned us into enemies. I thought Riccardo had finished him years ago. But ghosts have a way of crawling out of graves when you least expect it.
The text was proof enough.
I dressed in silence-dark jeans, leather jacket, no tie, no unnecessary weight. My gun rested against my spine like an old friend. I grabbed my phone, sent a quick encrypted message to Rafael and Riccardo:
C threatened Fiorella and Riccardo. We’ve got to act fast.
By the time I reached the garage, dawn had started to bleed over the skyline. The black Maserati roared to life and cut through deserted streets. The city was coming to life-vendors setting up, traffic lights which would change from red to green with no cars to heed them.
I started at the docks.
If Camillo was resurfacing, he'd move through the black market first-where his reach used to be longest. The smell of saltwater and fuel hit me as I stepped out onto the wet concrete, boots echoing against it. A few of the De Luca men were already stationed there, standing guard near the newest shipment crates.
One of my best soldiers, Loran , jogged up the moment he saw me. "Boss. You came early."
"Anything unusual?" I asked.
He hesitated. “Last night, one of the dockhands said he saw a mark on the crates near the east pier. Thought it was just graffiti at first.”
“What kind of mark?”
He reached for his phone and showed me a picture. The image was grainy, but I didn’t need clarity to recognize it.
A faint C carved into the wood, half hidden under the shipping code.
My pulse slowed, dangerously calm. “Where’s that container now?”
“Already offloaded. Warehouse fifteen.”
“Get two men to check it. No one touches a thing until I say so.”
Loran nodded and took off running. I stared at the faint outline on the photo again, the same symbol that used to hang from Camillo's chain years ago. It was too deliberate to be coincidence.
The morning fog thickened the further I drove into the warehouse district. The streets here were narrow, littered with crates and shadows. My instincts prickled before I even stepped out of the car; something was off. A car idled two blocks down, its headlights off, its tinted windows rolled up.
I didn't approach directly. Instead, I circled the back alleys, moving like I used to in the old days-silent, deliberate, every sense tuned sharp.
The hum of an engine grew louder as I crept closer to the corner. A cigarette ember glowed through the mist. Then a silhouette moved, tall, broad-shouldered, familiar in a way that made my stomach twist.
He turned slightly, and the light caught his face.
Camillo.
Alive.
He hadn't changed much; older, maybe leaner, but that same calculating stare. He spoke to someone in the car, handed them a folded map, and gestured toward the docks. His movements were slow, confident. Like he owned the place again.
My jaw locked. I wanted to drag him out of that car right there and end it. But I waited.
So I watched, waited, memorized.
He moved towards the old warehouse. My warehouse. This bastard was walking my territory like it was his. I followed, staying low behind the stacked cargo crates. He never looked back.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and rust. Through the cracks in the wall, I saw him kneel near one of the crates marked with the C. He pried the edge open-inside, not weapons, but cash. Bundles of it.
Money. Of my own shipments.
Camillo had been leeching off me-quietly, patiently.
He stepped back, pulling out his phone. His voice carried faintly through the echoing space. “Tell Nek it’s confirmed. The girl’s the key. We move soon.”
Nek.
The name came like a bolt out of the blue.
So that's who N was.
Fiorella. They were after her.
My hand tightened on the gun. I could almost see the scene in my mind, her sleeping peacefully, unaware that two ghosts from my past were aligning against us.
Camillo’s phone buzzed again. He looked at the screen, smirked, and then muttered something that I didn’t catch, turning to walk out.
I followed at a distance, my heart hammering. He got into the car and drove off. I tailed him through the city, careful, lights off, a few cars behind. By now the sun had risen fully, painting the streets gold and crimson, but all I could see was red.
He turned into an industrial area I knew too well-the one near the abandoned mill. A perfect place to hide. A perfect place for a trap.
The car slowed down, stopped by a gate guarded by two men. They let him in after a coded knock. I parked two blocks away and moved closer on foot, staying behind cover. The gates shut before I could see inside.
But I heard it.
The metallic sound of laughter. Camillo’s voice was faint but unmistakable.
And then another-lower, unfamiliar, but sharp.
"Make sure the D’Angelo girl is hurt," said this stranger. "We'll remind Rocco what loyalty costs."
That was enough confirmation for me.
I stepped back into the shadows, and my pulse steadied. The air felt colder suddenly, heavier. Camillo had teamed up with Nek. And they were coming straight for us.
The humming of the city drowned into the sound of my heartbeat.
I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over Rafael's contact. I needed to call him, to warn them all.
But a flicker caught my eye.
A small, blinking red dot near the corner of a dumpster.
A tracker. Right where I'd been standing moments ago. And then my phone vibrated. A new message. No number, just a single line:
Nice try, bro. Catch you later.
The alley fell deathly silent. They'd seen me. Camillo knew I was here.