Chapter 147 Rocco
The night carried that uneasy quiet that made the air too heavy to breathe.
Long shadows stretched across the stone path from the courtyard lights, and the soft trickle of the fountain sounded almost cruel in its serenity. Every instinct told me that something was wrong.
Fiorella wasn't back yet.
I'd been pacing the length of the courtyard for what felt like hours, gravel grinding under my boots. Riccardo was leaning against one of the pillars, scrolling through his phone, though I knew he wasn't reading a thing. Rafael sat nearby, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning between his fingers as the smoke curled slow and ghostlike into the air.
“She’s been gone too long,” I muttered.
Rafael didn't look up. "She went with her men. Phillipe wouldn't be stupid enough to try anything public."
"Stupid isn't the word for him," Riccardo said. "He's desperate. Men like that don't think straight."
The gate creaked. Headlights cut across the yard, slicing through the darkness. My chest eased just slightly.
The car rolled to a stop, and Fiorella stepped out of it: every inch of her composed, her posture regal. Her eyes, however, told another story altogether-guarded, cold, almost unreadable. Leo followed not too far behind, his face chiseled in stone.
When she reached me, I caught her wrist before I could stop myself. “Tell me he didn’t lay a hand on you.”
Her lips pressed into a line. “Not in that way.”
“Then what?
She let her breath out slowly, her eyes darting toward the fountain, the light catching the edges of her hair. "He wants something," she said. "Information for information."
Riccardo snorted. "Phillipe doesn't make deals. He makes traps."
Fiorella's jaw clenched. "He said he knows something about my mother."
Everything in me stilled. "What did he say?"
She reached into her clutch and handed me a folded note. I opened it. Three words:
Old Sanctuary — Eastern Coast.
“He gave you this?” I asked, scanning her face.
“Yes. Said my mother is alive. Said he knows where she is. But…” She hesitated, her throat bobbing. “He wants something in return.”
Rafael straightened. “What does he want?”
Fiorella’s eyes shifted to me. “He wants me to destroy a man’s operation. Shipments. Routes.”
The silence that followed was louder than shouting. I didn't even have to look at my brothers to know what they were thinking.
“Our routes,” I said finally, my voice low, dangerous.
She didn’t answer.
I felt the heat crawl up my neck. "He's asking you to burn our business, Fiorella. Everything your father built. Everything we've bled for."
“I know,” she whispered. “But if my mother’s alive—”
“I’ll find her,” I cut her off. “We’ll find her, but not his way.”
She met my gaze, and for a moment, neither of us breathed. There was something raw in her expression, pain, defiance, hope. “You don’t understand,” she said. “He’s the only one who knows.”
Riccardo crushed his cigarette under his shoe. “He’s playing you. He wants to break us from the inside.”
The sharpness in Fiorella’s voice was unmistakable. “He gave me proof. A location. A name. Something only someone who’s seen her would know.”
Before I could answer, Rafael's phone buzzed. He answered, his voice low. “Yeah?” A pause. “When?” His tone changed, darker. “How bad?”
He hung up and turned to me, his face pale in the light of the courtyard. “Rocco… it’s the shipment.”
My gut clenched. "What about it?"
“Gone,” he said. “Blown sky-high at the Corvallo docks. They’re saying it’s Camillo’s men.”
Riccardo swore softly. "That was our biggest run this month. Do you have any idea what that cost us?"
Five million. Maybe more.
My fists curled, the knuckles aching from the pressure. "Camillo." The name was a curse. "That bastard's been circling for weeks."
“He didn’t just circle this time,” Rafael said grimly. “He bit.”
I turned to Fiorella. She looked stricken, but her eyes flashed with comprehension. “You think Phillipe knew?”
"He wanted leverage," I said. "He knew you'd say no. So he made sure to hit us where it hurt first."
She froze. The realization settled over all of us like ash. Phillipe was calculating his moves down to the minute, every loss, every word, another step to corner us.
Riccardo paced, his tension rolling off him in waves. "He's baiting her with her mother and bleeding us dry at the same time."
“Enough,” I snapped, the word sharp enough to cut the air. “We’re not losing control.”
Fiorella crossed her arms, her chin tilted up. “Then what do we do?”
I studied her, the woman I'd kill for, the one who'd already survived too much. Her eyes were steady, even when her hands shook slightly at her sides.
“We hit back,” I said. “But not recklessly. We remind them who the hell they’re dealing with.”
Rafael’s mouth curved grimly. “You’re thinking of retaliation.”
“I’m thinking of a message,” I corrected. “Camillo first, then Phillipe.”
Riccardo's smile flickered. "Finally, something fun."
But Fiorella did not smile. “And my mother?” she asked softly.
I turned toward her. “We’ll find her. But not by dancing to his tune.”
Her voice shook, but the steel in it didn't falter. "She’s really alive, Rocco-
“Then he’ll expect us to come running,” I interrupted. “And that’s exactly what we won’t do.”
The air felt heavier. Her eyes glistened just faintly, but she blinked it away. I wanted to reach for her, but before I could, a guard came rushing through the archway holding a small brown envelope.
"Boss," he said, slightly breathless. "This just came. Dropped off at the gate. No name."
He handed it to me. The paper was light, almost too light. No markings, no seal. I tore it open.
A photograph slipped out.
My breath caught.
This was a woman with dark hair, tangled and matted, eyes half-open but alive, chained to a concrete wall. And the resemblance was undeniable. Her jaw, her mouth, even that trace scar beneath her left brow.
Fiorella froze beside me. Her hand lifted, trembling. “That’s…
"Your mother," I said quietly.
I peeled off the note taped to the back of the photo and read it out loud:
Proof of life. The clock is ticking. Choose wisely. — P.
The yard fell silent. The wind seemed to hold its breath, too.
Riccardo muttered something in a low, furious tone. “He’s taunting us.”
Fiorella looked shattered, as if the ground beneath her feet had given way, but she refused to fall. “He knows where she is,” she whispered. “I have to get her out.”
I slid the photo into my jacket pocket before she could take it. “And we will.”
Fiorella looked like she still had a lot to say but she just shook her head and angrily walked in.
Great, the weekend we’re supposed to bond with family isn’t going so great after all.