Chapter 144 Fiorella
The morning light spilled lazily through the curtains and onto the marble floor in soft, golden lines. I sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath me, a half-drunk cup of coffee cooling in my hand. The taste had gone bitter, but I continued to sip anyway, something to anchor me while my mind was all over the place.
Something was off.
Rocco hadn't called since last night.
He usually did, always, no matter how late or busy things got: a simple text, a gruff voice note, just something to let me know he was okay. But there was silence. The type of silence that gnawed at you, that whispered there was more you weren't being told. He didn’t answer my calls too so I’m really worried that something is wrong.
Leo had noticed it too. He was standing by the window, flipping through a tablet, pretending to be absorbed in numbers while his eyes flicked to me every few seconds.
“You’ve stared at that same spot for ten minutes,” he said finally, setting the tablet aside.
“Trying to see if worry makes people appear out of thin air,” I muttered, drinking some more. “It’s not working.”
"Rocco's fine," Leo said, though the way his brows pinched gave him away. "If something had gone wrong, Riccardo would've called. Or Rafael. They're tight-lipped, but not cruel."
“Mm.” I didn’t believe it. Rocco had been on edge all week, ever since he mentioned those crates marked with Camillo’s mark. He’d tried to play it off but I’d seen the tension in his shoulders, the dark look that crossed his face when he thought I wasn’t watching.
I set the cup down and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. “You think Camillo has attacked?”
Leo hesitated. "If he is, he's bold. No one survives crossing the De Lucas and stays breathing this long. But… I've heard rumors. There's been movement at the docks, men buying ammo in bulk. Quiet trades. He might have attacked.”
“Rocco’s out there chasing ghosts,” I said softly. “I can feel it.”
Leo's mouth tightened. "Then maybe he's trying to end it before it becomes more than ghosts.
It hadn't left by noon. The tension clung to me like smoke, following me through every call and every document I signed. I'd gone over the shipment reports twice already, but all the words blurred together. My head wasn't in business today; it was with Rocco, wherever he was, doing whatever dangerous thing he thought he had to do alone.
I was in my office when the door opened behind. In that moment, I thought it was him. My chest lifted, heart stumbling..
But it was Leo again, carrying a small, plain box.
"This just came for you," he said, laying it on my desk. "No name, no return address.
I frowned. “From where?
“The courier said it was dropped off at the gate an hour ago.”
I reached for the box, my fingers brushing against the rough cardboard. No markings. No seal. Just an ordinary package, but something about it felt wrong. My gut twisted, that same instinct that always kicked in before something went sideways.
Leo must have seen my expression because he stepped closer. “You want me to open it?”
Slowly, I shook my head. "If it's something that's meant for me, I'll face it."
I sliced through the tape with a letter opener. Inside was a manila envelope and nothing else. No letter, no signature. I slid the contents out and froze.
A photograph.
I felt my fingers tremble slightly as I lifted it up, and the glossy paper reflected the afternoon light. My eyes locked onto the image, and for a second, my brain refused to process what it was seeing.
A woman.
Thin. Pale. Shackled to a stone wall by both wrists. Her hair was tangled, streaked with gray, but her face…
My breath hitched.
I knew that face.
The same almond eyes. The same high cheekbones. The same faint scar above the right brow that I'd traced once as a child when she'd tucked me into bed.
“Fiorella?” Leo’s voice cut through the silence. “What is it?”
I couldn't speak. My throat had closed up.
Leo took the picture from my shaking hands. I watched his eyes widen, his jaw clench. “Is that—”
"My mother," I whispered.
He stared at me in a mix of disbelief and anger. “But she’s dead. We buried her—”
“That’s what I was told,” I echoed, voice quivering. “Everyone told me the same thing.”
Leo put the photo down, his expression hardening. “Who sent this?”
I picked up the envelope again, turning it over. There was something else inside, folded paper, no handwriting, just a printed note in block letters.
You still think she's gone?
You'll learn the truth soon enough.
No name. Only one initial.
N.
The air left my lungs in a sharp exhale. My pulse thudded in my ears. This was the same letter that had been taunting me for weeks, those cryptic texts, veiled threats, hints at family secrets.
Leo swore under his breath. “He’s playing with you.”
I stared at the photograph again, my reflection rippling faintly on its glossy surface. My mother's eyes looked hollow-but alive. Alive.
For years, I'd buried her memory under anger and grief, convinced she was dead. Now the ground beneath that grief cracked open, something dark and uncertain seeping out.
Alive, but chained.
Why? Who would keep her like this?
The name that rose instantly to my mind made bile burn the back of my throat, Phillipe.
If N knew something about my mother, if he was connected with Phillipe… then this was no coincidence.
I straightened slowly, using the edge of the desk to steady myself. My voice came out low, steady despite the storm inside me.
"Find out where this came from," I said to Leo. "Every courier, every security camera near the gate. I want to know who dropped it, and where it's been before it reached here."
Leo nodded, already moving. "I'll get on it."
As the door closed behind him, I exhaled a shuddering breath. My gaze fell upon the skyline beyond the window, the sun low, streaking the glass towers with fire.
Rocco would be back soon. I should tell him. I would tell him.
But a part of me hesitated.
If my mother was alive… if this was real… then whoever sent this photo wanted to drag me into a game I didn't understand yet. And Rocco-he'd burn everything down to protect me.
Maybe that's exactly what they wanted.
I reached for my phone just as it buzzed with a new message.
Unknown number.
No words this time, just another photo. The same woman-my mother. This time, her head was turned slightly toward the camera. And beside her, scrawled on the wall in fresh red paint, were three words that made my stomach drop.
“You’ll come soon.” My hand went cold, and the phone slipped from my grasp and hit the desk with a soft thud.
I just stared at the screen a moment, the message searing itself into my mind. My mother was alive. And someone wanted me to find her. Or die trying.