Chapter 14 Fiorella
Fiorella
The ballroom was hot.
Perfume and power, gold and silk, all of it blending together like poison in a crystal glass.
I descended the stairs deliberately, slowly, not for effect, I did not need attention. Attention preceded my name. But I knew every man in this room gazed at me with equal measure of admiration and fear.
Good.
My eyes scanned until they locked on him.
Rocco De Luca.
Slouching against shiny marble like he owned the joint. Black leather jacket, cold glare, jaw so sharp it'd cut glass.
Didn't smile.
Didn't fake it.
He just…watched.
Like a predator sizing me up to see if I was threat or prey.
I glared back at him. No flinch. No hesitation.
By the time I reached the ground floor, he was blocking my way.
Close.
Too close.
"Rocco De Luca," I whispered, my voice smooth but honed to a point.
"I guess you clean up well."
His lips smiled, grudgingly.
"Likewise."
His arm wrapped around mine — warm, calloused, possessive. Heat coursed up my arm for an instant. I pressed it back.
I released his hand before he could tighten the grip.
He didn't complain.
He held out his arm.
I took it.
And with it, we went into the snake pit.
The air was thick with whispers — friendships tested, old hatreds polished like antiques. Politicians. Mafiosi. Men who smiled while they plotted murder over expensive champagne.
My father sat at the long table near the head, his gaze flicking in my direction with a subtle nod of approval. He was among men half his age but twice his presence.
Rocco led me to the end of the room.
The De Luca brothers were already seated.
Rafael.
Riccardo.
Rafael's hand rested on his wife's lower back as they chatted to someone I didn't know. But the way he looked at Rosalia… it was disarming. Protective. Warm.
It unsettled me.
Could someone like him feel something so pure?
He killed her brother.
And here she sat, serene, beautiful, almost happy.
I wondered if she loved him.
Had she forgotten the blood? Or was love what had tempted her to forgive?
Riccardo was not like that. He lounged in his chair, drink in his hand, face indolent and bored, as if all this was too beneath him.
There was no heat there. Only chill intelligence hidden behind a facade of disinterest.
A man to be feared who did not care for alliances or feelings. Only the outcome.
My seat was beside Rocco.
I glided into the velvet chair, adjusting my gown with one hand.
He didn't glance at me.
Didn't have to.
His weight was dense beside me, electrifying like a thunderstorm waiting to strike.
Dinner was brought, but appetite eluded me.
I gazed at everyone .
Old money. Old power.
Corner whispers.
A senator in debt.
A clean-handed tycoon.
Men smiling too broadly, each of them scheming, each of them balancing the potential for betrayal.
Rafael leaned forward to whisper something in Rosalia's ear.
She smiled gently, eyes aglow.
I couldn't help but wonder, What does he give her? Security? Power? Passion?
I would have killed him if I were her.
My gaze came back to Riccardo.
He looked at me and winked lazily before finishing his glass.
I turned away.
And then, Rocco spoke at last.
His voice was low, husky.
"You're not impressed."
I slowly turned my head to him, looking into his dark eyes.
"Should I be?"
His lip trembled.
"Most women would."
"I'm not most women."
"I've noticed."
His eyes followed the line of my dress, settling on the slit that revealed my thigh.
Heat flared in his eyes.
I felt it… and ignored it.
"Careful, De Luca," I breathed. "You stare too long, you'll end up with more than you can handle."
"I never bite off more than I can chew," he whispered, but there was something evil in his voice. A promise.
The first course was taken away.
The music shifted.
Dancers poured onto the floor, women adorned with gems, men leading with practiced skill.
Rocco didn't ask.
He stood up, offered his hand.
I hesitated half a second, then placed my fingers in his.
The dance floor was ours.
His hand rested low on my back, fingers splayed wide, possessive.
I hated how solid he felt.
How sure.
We moved as one, steps perfectly matched, neither of us leading, neither following.
A dangerous dance between two predators.
“Your father seemed eager for this alliance,” he said, his breath warm against my ear.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Not by choice.”
I met his gaze.
“I make my own choices.”
He spun me around, his grip firm as steel, then yanked me back against his chest.
His pulse was steady.
Calm.
Mine wasn't.
"You like this," I accused softly.
"What?"
"Trying to break me."
He smiled.
"No. I'm testing the steel."
I glared.
"Be careful what you test, Rocco. Some blades cut deeper than you know."
The song ended.
Applause broke around us.
But we didn't move.
His hand was on my waist.
"You're deadly," he whispered.
"And you're predictable," I snapped.
His smile grew razor-sharp.
"Am I?"
I didn't have time to respond before there was a commotion at the entrance.
Guards burst in, taut, talking softly into earpieces.
I bristled.
Rocco's hand retreated from my waist, his body tensing.
"Stay close," he said, his voice devoid of any humour now.
I already was.
The ballroom erupted into chaos.
The pungent crack of guns filled the air, followed by cries of horror.
Rocco's hand wrapped around my arm, pulling me back against him.
"Stay low," he snarled.
I didn't need the reminder.
My gun was already in my hand, the familiar weight of it grounding me in the fight.
I swept the room, thick with smoke.
Heart steady.
Two men on the balcony.
One by the east door, firing wildly.
Rocco took out the one at the door, neat shots.
I aimed at the balcony.
One shot, missed.
The second shot hit.
The masked man fell over the railing, splashing onto marble below.
I ran between tables, dress in tatters, abandoned, adrenaline coursing through me.
This was not my first ambush.
This would not be my last.
Rocco stayed on my shoulder, his stance sharp, watchful.
We cleared out the ballroom, but the blasts outside went on.
A blast shook the walls, dust falling like snow.
I took my comm, voice strained.
"Status?"
Crackling silence.
My father's voice came through finally, low and grim.
"They've attacked the south wing. And the warehouse."
The warehouse.
My chest tightened.
I glanced at Rocco.
He was already shaking his head.
"We go now."
We forced through the emergency exit, out into the night.
The cars were ablaze.
Bodies on the ground.
I didn't blink.
I couldn't.
Rocco's phone rang again. He answered, his face growing darker.
"What?" I snapped.
He let out a harsh breath.
"They took something from the warehouse. Something big."
My blood turned to ice.
This was no message.
It was a threat.
Before I could react
A blaring sound.
Then
A bullet by my cheek, searing flesh.
Another lodged in the wall behind me.
I flinched reflexively.
But too late.
I turned around
And stared into the cold muzzle of a gun jammed between my eyes.