Chapter 145 Rocco
The smell of gunpowder clung to my jacket. It was sharp and metallic in my nostrils, mingling with the faint sting of disinfectant that hadn't left since Rafael stitched my shoulder.
The warehouse was supposed to be empty.
But Camillo never played fair.
I leaned back into the armchair, the leather cool against my back, trying not to mind the throbbing under my bandage. Standing across from me, my brothers wore the same expression of utter astonishment and rage upon their faces as I did.
“I told you,” I said, my voice low, edged with exhaustion. “Camillo’s not a rumor. I saw him.”
Riccardo paced near the bar, his hands clenched into fists. "You're sure it was him? Not one of his men?"
I shot him a look. "You think I'd mistake that bastard's face? He walked right past me before the explosion. Smiling. Like he wanted me to see him."
Rafael swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “And you didn’t shoot him?”
“I almost did,” I snapped. “Until I realized the warehouse was wired to blow. He knew I’d come. It was a setup.”
“Jesus, Rocco,” Riccardo said, pounding a fist onto the counter. “He’s playing with us. You should have waited for backup.”
I laughed out loud, the sound sharp and bitter. "If I'd waited, I'd be ashes right now."
The silence that followed was heavy. Rafael poured himself a drink, the crystal clinking softly. He looked tired,hell, we all did.
“He’s not just back,” I said quietly. “He’s planning something. He’s too bold to just linger in the shadows. Whatever he’s building, he’s not doing it alone.”
Riccardo's jaw ticked. "Then we strike first."
Rafael shook his head. "Strike where? You barely got out alive. He's baiting us into blind retaliation. We can't afford a war we don't understand yet."
“You'd rather sit and wait for him to kill one of us?” growled Riccardo.
“I'd rather not walk into another trap,” Rafael shot back.
The voices of the others rose, sharp edges cutting the air. I closed my eyes a moment, letting the argument blur. My shoulder pulsed with heat, a dull reminder that I was lucky still to be breathing.
They'd been fighting ever since I got back: strategy versus vengeance, logic versus fury. And they were both right.
But all I could think of was Camillo's face-the cruel smirk, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes before the explosion tore through the building.
He wanted this.
He wanted us divided.
“Enough,” I said finally, my voice firm enough to still them. “We're not going to destroy each other over that coward. I'll deal with him my way.”
Riccardo turned, anger still simmering in his eyes. “You mean alone again?”
“I mean smart,” I said. “He wants chaos. We'll give him patience. And when the time's right, we'll burn his empire from the inside out.”
Rafael raised his glass slightly. “That’s more like you.”
I didn't answer. My mind was elsewhere though, on Fiorella, waiting at home. It wasn't just the wound that ached inside my chest. I hated keeping her in the dark, but telling her about Camillo's return would only paint a bigger target on her back.
Still, I couldn't stay away any longer. I needed to see her.
By the time I reached the penthouse, the sky had dipped into violet. The city lights bled into each other, streaking the skyline gold and amber.
I slipped quietly through the door, assuming her to be asleep. Instead, Fiorella was awake and pacing near the window. Her hair was loose, tumbling over her shoulders. When she saw me, her phone slipped from her hand.
“Rocco—”
Before I could utter a word, she crossed the room, her bare feet silent on the marble. Her hands clutched my shirt as her eyes scoured over me, panic flooding her features.
“You’re hurt.” Her voice cracked on the word. “Why didn’t you call me? Where were you?”
I caught her wrists gently before she could touch my shoulder. "It's fine, amore. It's just a graze."
She pulled back far enough to look at me, her face shadowed with disbelief. "A graze doesn't bleed through a shirt, Rocco." Her eyes darted to the faint red mark near the bandage beneath my open collar. "You're burning up. What happened?"
Sighing, I ran a hand down my face. "Camillo set a trap. I tracked one of his men to a warehouse at the docks. It was supposed to be a quiet check, but he knew I'd come. The place exploded before I could get close."
Her breath caught. “You could’ve been killed.”
“Almost was,” I said, forcing a thin smile. “But I’m here now.”
Her hands were shaking slightly as she reached up, brushing my jaw with her fingertips. “You can’t keep doing this alone.”
I leaned into her touch, just for a second, grounding myself. “I don’t plan to.”
For a heartbeat, the world stilled-the faint hum of the city below, the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her body pressed close to mine. Then something in her eyes shifted.
Fear.
“What is it?” I asked quietly.
She stepped back, hesitating. Then she turned toward the desk, picked up a photograph, and handed it to me with unsteady fingers.
My gaze dropped-and my stomach turned to ice.
It was a woman, chained to the wall, her face gaunt but unmistakable.
Fiorella's mother.
I'd seen her picture years ago, in old files when I was digging into Fiorella's past. But this-this was recent. Too real.
"Where did you get this?" I demanded, my voice low, dangerous.
“A package came today,” she said. “No name. Just that picture and a note.”
“What note?”
She reached for the envelope on the desk and handed it to me. I unfolded it slowly.
Do you still think she's gone?
You'll learn the truth soon enough.
—N.
For a moment, my vision blurred at the edges as rage twisted through my veins. “N.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “The same person who’s been sending those cryptic messages. But this time, it’s real, Rocco. My mother’s alive. I’ve seen it.”
I stared at her, the conflict in me burning hot. “Fiorella… if this is true, then whoever N is, he knows things he shouldn't. This isn't taunting. It's manipulation.”
“I don’t care what it is,” she said, her voice trembling but fierce. “If my mother’s alive, I need to find her.”
Her eyes shone under the dim light, determination wrapped in fear.
I took a step closer, cupping her face gently, my thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. “You won’t do it alone,” I said quietly. “We’ll find her. But first, I’m going to find whoever sent this, and make them regret breathing.”
Fiorella's eyes darted to the photograph once more. "There's more, Rocco. Another message came just before you walked in."
I frowned. “What message?”
She turned her phone toward me. A new text glowed on the screen, no contact name, just a single line:
I do wonder how you're reacting to the news of your mother. Want to see mommy dearest soon? Ask Phillipe.
A cold rush shot down my spine. My fists unconsciously tightened.
“Phillipe,” I muttered, tasting the name like poison.
Fiorella’s eyes lifted to mine, wide and uncertain. “You think he’ll talk?”
I didn't answer immediately. My pulse was hammering too hard, the anger too sharp.
If Phillipe knew where her mother was… if he'd kept it from us all this time—
I looked out of the window, the city lights burning in the distance like the reflection of my fury.
"If he's part of this," I said quietly, "then he's already a dead man."
Behind me, Fiorella's breath hitched; I could feel her eyes on me, could sense the storm of fear and hope and disbelief swirling inside her.
“We have to win this war, no matter what it takes.” Fiorella muttered.