Chapter 155 Rocco
The house is too quiet.
After Rafael leaves my office, I sit there in the dark for a long while, long enough for the silence to get under my skin. Long enough for Fiorella's face to appear every time I blink. Long enough for anger and guilt to mix into something thick and suffocating.
I get up eventually. Cannot keep still.
When I come back into the living room, Riccardo is sitting on the edge of the table, leg bouncing, eyes sharp and furious. Rafael stands near the bar, hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hasn't touched.
They look up the moment they hear me.
Riccardo's jaw ticks. "You’re calm now?"
I level him a stare. "No."
“Good,” he mutters, “because I’m still pissed.”
Rafael gives him a warning glare, but Riccardo doesn’t look away from me.
“You're too quiet,” he adds. “That's usually when things get dangerous.”
I run a hand through my hair. "We deal with Nek. We get Mother De Luca back. Then.”
“Then we decide what to do with Fiorella,” Riccardo concludes.
My teeth clench.
Rafael steps forward. "Right now, we focus on the threat that's moving. Nek is winding up for something. Fiorella's information wasn't given for nothing."
“Yeah,” Riccardo mutters. “And if Nek thinks we’re unprepared—”
“He'll take the shot,” I finish.
The air thickens.
My phone buzzes once.
A message from my security detail:
Camillo spotted near De Luca territory.
My stomach knots instantly.
Of course.
Because tonight wasn't chaotic enough.
Camillo.
Rafael watches my expression darken. “What happened?”
“Camillo,” I mutter, “he’s in our territory.”
Riccardo bolts upright. “What the fuck.”
“Don’t,” I warn, grabbing my jacket. “I’ll handle it.”
Rafael catches my arm. “Rocco. Don’t go alone.”
“I’m not asking permission.”
His grip tightens. “He’s dangerous.”
“So am I.”
We hold each other's stare until he releases my arm, his jaw tight with worry masked as annoyance.
"Be careful," Rafael says.
Riccardo adds: "If you need backup, call us."
I nod once and walk out.
But I already know I'm not calling anyone tonight.
Some fights are personal and I need to take my frustration out on something or better still someone and he is the perfect person.
⸻
The night is colder outside the De Luca club than anywhere else in the city. Perhaps it's from memories soaked into the pavement. Maybe it's ghosts that linger.
I spot him instantly.
Camillo stands by the alley beside the club, lean and tall in black, his face half-shadowed by the streetlight. Just like the last time I saw him alive. Except now there's something darker in his eyes.
When he turns and sees me, his lips curve into a smirk-the same one he used to wear before we got into trouble together. Except now it's meaner. Broken. Tainted.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “Rocco De Luca. Still breathing, I see.”
I stop a few feet away, my muscles coiled tight.
“I thought you were dead,” I say flatly.
“You hoped,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
My jaw tightens. "What the hell are you doing here?"
He steps forward, almost languorously, as if he's savouring this moment. "Finishing what should've been finished years ago."
My blood heats, pulse drumming hard in my ears.
“You betrayed me,” I remind him, my voice low.
He shrugs. “You betrayed me first.”
I scoff. "You tried to have me killed."
"You took something from me first," he snaps back, eyes ablaze. "You think I forgot?"
"And you think I'll let you walk around my city after that?"
His smirk widens. "I'm not here to walk.”
He pulls something from his jacket.
Not a gun.
A knife.
Long and sharp, gleaming under the streetlight.
A challenge.
A declaration.
I slip my own knife from my belt, flipping it expertly between my fingers. The metal is familiar, comforting in a twisted way.
Camillo chuckles. “Still prefer steel over bullets. Good.”
“We end this tonight,” I tell him.
His eyes gleam. “Like men.”
We drop our guns onto the pavement at the same time.
The sound echoes.
And then we move.
⸻
The first clash of metals slashes through the night, loud, sharp, violent.
Camillo is quick. He always was. Our blades clash again and again, sending sparks flying off the metal as he lunges and I parry. He targets my ribs, my throat, the places he knows I guard.
“Still predictable,” I growl, ducking under his swing.
“Still impulsive,” he returns, twisting and slashing upward.
The blade grazes my palm, hot sting, wet warmth.
Blood.
I don't stop.
If anything, it fuels me.
All the frustration of the night, the rage, the betrayal, Fiorella's tears, the look on Rocco's face, everything pours into the fight. My muscles burn, but I push harder, driving him backward.
“You look angry,” Camillo says, panting, “Trouble in paradise?”
I slam him into the wall so hard, dust falls from the bricks.
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
He grins through the pain, eyes wild. "Ah. The girl."
He dodges my next strike by a hair.
"Did she finally betray you too?" he mocks. "Seems to be a pattern for you."
Something inside me snaps.
I attack harder, faster.
He blocks, but not well, my blade slicing across his shoulder, then his side.
He stumbles, holding his stomach as blood starts seeping through his shirt.
But he grins anyway, teeth stained red.
“There he is,” he rasps. “The real Rocco.”
I grab him by the collar, slam him against the wall again.
"You want the real me?" I snarl, blade pressed to his throat. "I'll show you the real fucking me."
He laughs, the hard, broken sound.
“You already did.”
Then he shoves off me with surprising strength, slicing toward my arm. The blade catches my hand again-deeper this time. Blood spills warm and fast.
Pain flashes white-hot.
But I don't care.
The eyes lock, both panting hard, blood dripping onto the pavement.
This isn't a street fight.
This is two ghosts finishing unfinished business.
“You should’ve stayed dead,” I growl.
His smirk fades to something colder.
“Next time,” Camillo whispers, “I won’t miss.”
He slowly backs away, his hand pressed against his bleeding stomach, breaths uneven.
I take a step forward.
He raises the knife in warning. “Touch me now and you'll start a war even you can't win. Nek, Phillipe, all your enemies teaming up against you.”
I freeze, not out of fear, but calculation.
He knows it.
Camillo smirks, reeling back.
"See you soon, brother."
He disappears into the dark like a little chicken and I let him.
I remain standing in the alley, my chest heaving, my blood dripping from my hand onto the pavement.
The cold air hits my wounds, but my mind is somewhere else.
Fiorella's betrayal.
Camillo’s return
Nek's threat. My brothers are waiting at home. The storm, brewing everywhere around me. I wipe the blood off my fingers, tasting iron and fury.
Rafael was wrong. I am calm now. Dead calm. The kind of calm that precedes violence. And someone is going to pay for pushing me this far.