Chapter 140 Fiorella
It had been two days since Rocco started acting strange again, more distant, more alert, as though shadows had begun whispering to him. He hadn’t said much, only that he had things to “check out.” The look in his eyes had told me the rest.
Whatever it was, it was dangerous.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn't press.
I'd learned that silence could be its own kind of weapon.
It was a little earlier than usual that the mansion started to buzz. Men were unloading crates near the south lot, their boots heavy against the concrete, voices low and brisk. Leo stood among them-his head bent over the manifests. I spotted him from the terrace and made my way down.
The sharp scent of oil and steel filled the air as I reached the loading dock. Leo looked up, offering a half-smile that didn't quite touch his eyes.
“Morning, boss.” he greeted. “You’re early.”
I gave a small shrug, scanning the new shipment. The crates were stamped with the De Luca emblem, neat rows of polished rifles and boxes of ammunition packed tight. "Needed to clear my head," I said.
Leo snorted. “I thought that’s what Rocco was for.”
“Rocco has enough on his plate.
My tone shut down any further questions. Leo got it and turned back to the inventory. I moved between the rows, running my hand light over the cold metal to survey it all: every weapon, every case. Precision was my ritual-it kept me grounded.
An hour later, everything looked good. I nodded to the men. “Get them stored properly. I want half moved to the east wing. Keep the rest in rotation.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I went back out when the sun was already high, burning. The mansion shimmered under its light, deceptive in its calm. I needed to get some air, needed to get rid of the frustration scratching at my insides.
The drive to the gun range was quick: fifteen minutes through the city, five into the quiet stretch near the woods. It was almost empty when I got there, with just the faint echo of shots from the far end. I signed in, slipped on the protective gear, and stepped into lane twelve.
The smell of gunpowder always did something to me.
I loaded the pistol; the click of the magazine sliding in seemed to echo like punctuation to my thoughts. A target sheet waited fifty feet away, nothing but a white silhouette waiting to be ruined.
I exhaled, released, and fired.
Each shot cracked through the air, sharp and satisfying. The target's chest bloomed with holes. I didn't stop until the clip emptied. Then I reloaded and did it again.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
By the third round, my hands had steadied, my thoughts sharper. But the frustration didn't leave, just sank deeper. I still hadn't heard a word from Phillipe.
That wasn't like him.
He was too arrogant, too cruel to remain silent for long. His silences signaled planning.
I hit the button, watching the target reel back toward me, riddled with bullet holes. The paper was torn and frayed, the center obliterated.
"Looks like someone's had a week," the range officer muttered from the next lane, giving me a knowing look.
I smiled slightly. "You have no idea."
I packed up, changed out the weapon, and checked my phone as I walked toward the exit. A missed call blinked at the top of the screen-from Matt , one of the men I had tailing Phillipe.
My pulse quickened as I hit redial.
He answered almost immediately. "Boss." His voice was low, urgent. "You might want to hear this."
“What happened?
“There’s movement. Phillipe have been meeting late nights at their estate. Same cars, different faces. One of our guys on the inside heard something about a strike soon.”
“How soon?”
“Couldn't say. But they're gearing up for something big. Maybe retaliation.”
Retaliation.
I breathed in deeply, forcing my pulse to steady. "Keep eyes on them. No one moves unless I say so. If anything changes, I want to know before they take their first step."
“Yes, boss.”
The line clicked off.
I slid the phone into my pocket, gaze fixed on nothing. Phillipe was coming. That much was clear. While part of me had expected as much, another part-some foolish, exhausted part-had hoped they'd be too broken to try again.
Apparently not.
I got back into the car and let the hum of the engine fill the silence. Outside, the world looked so normal, families at cafes, a couple walking their dog, kids chasing each other down the sidewalk. It almost made me laugh, how many times had I wished for a life like that?
But peace was never meant for people like me.
When I got back to the mansion, Rocco was still out. I could tell by the silence that settled over the house. I went directly to my office, poured myself a glass of whiskey, and pulled up the surveillance feeds. Everything looked calm, almost too calm.
Then my phone vibrated again.
A text.
Unknown number.
My eyes narrowed as I read the message from N.
“I am sure you must be guessing who I am. Let me give you a hint, Fiorella, your father had secrets. Big ones. You deserve to know what he hid from you.”
I typed a reply, then deleted it before I sent it. Not worth it.
Instead, I locked my phone, tossed it onto the desk, and went back to work. The mysterious "N" was in for a disappointment if he seriously thought he'd get a reaction.
By noon, I'd met with the warehouse supervisors, inventoried the new shipments, and read over every manifest a couple of times. Leo was like my shadow, carrying a tablet and cracking jokes every other minute to break tension.
"You ever take a break, boss?" he asked as we stepped out into the yard again.
“This is my break,” I said flatly.
He smirked. “I don’t know who’s more stubborn between you and Rocco.”
I shot him a look, and he laughed under his breath.
The mention of Rocco tugged at something warm in my chest. He'd been holed up at the De Luca estate most of the week, handling business with his brothers and keeping tabs on the Valenti aftermath. I missed him more than I wanted to admit.
By afternoon, as the sun had softened and gold light spilled across the lot, my phone rang. His name lit the screen.
I didn't even realize I was smiling until I answered, "Rocco."
“Amore.” His voice came through low and smooth, the kind of sound that made my shoulders drop an inch. “How’s my girl holding up?”
"Overworked," I said, stepping away from the noise. "And bored. You?"
He chuckled. It sounded deep and rough. “Same. Meetings all morning. I think Riccardo's going to lose his mind if Rafael doesn't stop acting like he and Rosalia are the only two people in the world.”
I laughed quietly, imagining it. “Let him. At least someone’s getting a break from the madness.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice had softened now, the teasing gone.
I leaned against the railing, eyes on the horizon. “I’m fine, Rocco. Just. busy.”
“I worry when you sound too calm,” he murmured.
“I worry when you call me during the meetings,” I replied teasingly. “Go focus, boss. I’ll handle my end.”
He laughed again, a breathy sound that made my chest tighten. “Fine. But I’m coming by tonight.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I'll bring dinner.”
“Then I'll wait up.”
We lingered another minute, just breathing together through the line; no words were needed.
As the call ended, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass door. I looked tired but steady. My kind of normal.
I went back inside, spent the next hour reviewing shipment logs, and called Matt for updates on Phillipe. Still nothing. Just whispers of the them licking their wounds.
I should have felt relieved. Instead, unease lingered like smoke that refused to clear.
By dusk, I was finally settled on the couch in my office, heels off, a glass of wine half-empty beside me. Leo had gone home. The warehouse had gone quiet. My thoughts were already slipping toward Rocco and what he'd bring for dinner when my phone vibrated again.
Same unknown number.
My stomach twisted, but not from fear, rather irritation.
I swiped the screen open.
“You look so much like your mother. Would you like to see how she looks now?”
I froze.
The words blurred for a second. My thumb hovered over the screen.
That wasn’t possible.
My mother had been dead for many years.
Every detail of it carved into memory.
A mirthless laugh escaped my throat. “Nice try,” I muttered under my breath.
But as I set the phone down, something cold crept into my stomach.
How would this person know how she looked, or that I looked like her?
And the phrasing--how she looks now.
I looked at the message once more, my pulse rising, the edges of my calm beginning to fray. Maybe it was a bluff. Maybe it wasn't. I'd seen enough ghosts to know the past had a cruel way of not staying buried. I reached for my glass, but my hand shook just a little.
Could it be the secret N had been hinting at? Could my mother-be alive? The thought settled in the pit of my stomach like ice.