Chapter 152 Fiorella
The engine purred as I pulled into the driveway, but my hands were trembling too badly to cut it. The gates closed behind me with their usual mechanical groan, and for a moment I just sat there,staring through the windshield at the house that suddenly felt too big, too silent, too heavy with everything I'd just done.
My pulse hadn't stopped racing since I left the water park. The night air still clung to my skin, damp and cold, like it had soaked directly into my bones. Nek's words replayed themselves in my head over and over, until they started to tangle with the sound of my mother's voice-the one I hadn't heard in years, except in my dreams.
She's alive.
He'd shown me proof. A photograph of her chained to a chair, eyes wild but conscious, a bruise darkening the side of her face. Her mother's necklace, the one she'd once promised I'd inherit, hung crooked around her throat.
And he'd said it so calmly, like we were discussing a business transaction.
"Access to De Luca shipment routes, Fiorella. That's all I want. Refuse, and your mother disappears for good."
I had agreed.
Not fully, not in the way he wanted-but enough to buy time. Enough to keep her alive.
Now, sitting in the car with the engine still humming beneath me, I felt sick.
My fingers brushed the photo still hidden inside my jacket pocket, and my stomach turned. I'd just betrayed the man I loved, the man who had trusted me enough to bring me into his world, to share his secrets, to promise me a future.
And I'd sold a piece of that future for a ghost.
Through the windshield, the house lights came into focus: warm, golden, welcoming. I'd always loved how alive this place felt when Rocco was home, with the hum of conversation,
When I finally went inside, the heat enveloped me but didn't register. My chest was tight, my palms cold despite the heat.
I locked the door behind me, leaned against it, and let my head fall back.
What have I done?
It was the echo of the question that chased me down the empty hallway. Every so often, the scent of Rocco's cologne wafted on the air: leather and smoke and something darker, something that always seemed to reassure me. Tonight, it served only to remind me of the weight of the lie between us.
I went up the stairs slowly, the photograph burning like a secret in my pocket. With every step, I was coming closer to the inevitable truth-that I couldn't keep this from him anymore.
If he found out on his own, and he would, it would destroy us.
I sat on the edge of the bed, pressing my palms together to stop them from shaking. My thoughts were a mess of guilt and fear and something deeper, something that hurt to even name.
Rocco was going to hate me for this.
I'd seen the way he looked at betrayal before-how cold his eyes got, how his voice lost all trace of softness. He could forgive a mistake, but a lie? Especially one that touched his business, his trust?
It wouldn't just be a question of trying to save my mother; it would be a question of choosing someone else over him.
And in a way, I had.
The thought made my throat tighten. I curled forward, elbows on knees, whispering into the still air.
“I’m sorry, Rocco.”
A sound from downstairs snapped me upright.
The faint rumble of a car engine. Tires on gravel.
Then silence.
My heart stopped.
I didn’t even have to check; I knew that sound.
Rocco.
⸻
When the door opened, the atmosphere changed in an instant. The cold he carried in with him swallowed the warmth of the house. His footsteps were steady, deliberate, and when he appeared in the doorway, the look on his face made the air leave my lungs.
His eyes were dark and keen, unreadable-but there was something beneath them. Something wounded.
“Where were you?” His voice was low, controlled. Too controlled.
I swallowed. "Out. I- needed to think."
“Think?” His jaw flexed. “At midnight? At the docks?”
My stomach dropped. "You followed me."
He didn't answer that. Instead, he moved closer until his presence filled the room like a storm. "I saw you, Fiorella. I saw you talking to him."
My mouth went dry. "To who?"
He didn’t even blink. “N.”
The name hit like a punch.
I opened my mouth, but nothing said.
He took another step forward. "You met with him. You took something to him. You’ve been keeping things from me."
I couldn't breathe. My pulse thudded in my ears, and my fingers curled into the sheets. "Rocco, please-"
“What did he give you?” he demanded. “What did you trade for it?”
The tears I’d been holding back slipped free. “He has my mother.”
That stopped him cold. His face shifted, just a little, but it was enough. Shock, disbelief, then fury, all colliding at once.
"I’m sorry," I whispered. "He had her poisoned, and he said if I didn't give him what he wanted—"
“What he wanted,” he cut in, voice like steel, “was our routes. Our trade information. The very thing that keeps my family safe.”
I shook my head, desperate. "I didn't give him the real ones. I swear it. I changed the coordinates, switched the manifests. I just needed to buy time until I figured out how to save her—"
“You lied to me.”
His voice cracked through the room like thunder.
I flinched.
“You should have told me,” he said, pacing now, hands clenched at his sides. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened? If he traced even one of those routes, if he intercepted a single shipment, he could’ve hit our men. He could’ve destroyed everything.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
"Sorry doesn't fix it." His gaze met mine, hard and unrelenting. "You don't just lose my trust, Fiorella. You lose my brothers'. You lose this family's trust. Do you understand what that means?"
Tears blurred my vision. “You think I don’t? You think I wanted this?”
He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “You should’ve come to me.”
“I couldn’t,” I said, the words spilling out of my mouth, trembling and raw. “I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t know who might be watching us, listening to us. Nek. Camillo, they could have people inside. I didn’t want to risk your safety, or your brothers’. I didn’t want them using my mother as bait to get to you.”
His movements stilled. Slowly, he looked back at me.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Just the sound of both our breathing, uneven, heavy, filled with things neither of us could say.
Then, softer this time, almost breaking.
“You should have trusted me enough to tell me anyway. You don’t trust me enough to tell me things. This is the second time. You’re more secretive than I thought. You prefer to act alone forgetting we are a team. What do I have to do to make you realise that you can trust me?”
That one sentence cracked something inside me.
I took a step forward. “I was trying to protect you.”
“And I was trying to protect us.” His voice rose again, but the anger had shifted, less sharp now, more wounded. “Do you know what it feels like to watch you walk into danger and not know why? To see you with him and not know what you were giving away?”
I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hold back another sob. "I didn't give him anything real. I swear it, Rocco. I just needed time.”
“You always need time,” he said quietly. “And every time you ask for it, you give another piece of yourself away.”
Those words stung worse than a slap.
Neither of us moved for a long, hard moment. The space between us was thick with everything we couldn't undo: his fury, my fear, the quiet grief curling beneath it all.
I finally whispered, "I didn't do it to hurt you."
He let his breath out sharply and looked away. “No. You did it to save her. But now I have to clean up the mess before he uses you against me too.”
I wanted to reach for him, but the expression in his eyes stopped me dead in my tracks.
This wasn't the Rocco who held me close when the nightmares came. This was the Don, the man forged by betrayal and blood and too many scars to count.
And I'd just become one more scar.
He turned toward the door. “I don’t know how to deal with this Fi. Maybe Phillipe was right about you after all. Maybe you and I won’t actually work out, we’re too alike. We should probably take a break since we are both currently dealing with a lot.”
“Rocco, please—” I begged.
“I’m still dealing with Camillo and his betrayal, I can’t have you do the same Fi.” He walked out without another word.
The door clicked softly behind him, but it felt louder than a gunshot. I sank to the floor, shaking.
The photo slipped from my pocket, landing facedown on the rug. All I could do was stare at it-the edges already creased from my grip-whispering into an empty room,
“I didn’t give him the right information. I didn’t. Please believe me.” But the only answer was silence.