Chapter 16 Fiorella
Fiorella
The doors slammed inwards with a thunderous crash.
Concrete dust filled my mouth, choking me.
But my instinct did not fail.
I ducked behind the metal table, gun raised, breathing calm.
Smoke stung my eyes, but I could hear them, heavy boots pounding in, shouting in clipped Italian.
Rocco's voice cut through it, cold and imperative.
"Rafael, we need backup. Now!"
Gunfire erupted before Rafael could reply.
The safe house was breached.
I eased out from the back of the table, firing twice.
A man fell, his rifle banging on the floor.
Another charged me.
I ran him head-on.
Elbow to nose, crack, his yell silenced by my boot coming down on his ribs.
He hit the ground.
Rocco was by my side in a flash, covering my left.
He did not seem frightened.
Cold. Calculated.
His gun crackled in crisp, controlled shots.
No wasted motion.
"Five, maybe six," he said without moving.
I took a deep breath, tasting metal and adrenaline.
“They made a mistake coming here.”
We moved together.
It was instinctual now, like we’d fought beside each other for years.
Cover, fire, advance.
They didn’t stand a chance.
One man tried to retreat.
I shot him in the back without blinking.
Rocco glanced at me, just for a second.
Approval.
Or maybe recognition.
The last attacker threw a stun grenade.
I dropped to the floor, covering my eyes.
White fire burned behind my lids, ears ringing.
When my vision came back, Rocco was already on top of him, knife to the man's jugular.
"Who sent you?" Rocco's voice was all steel.
The man spat blood, hell-bent on defiance.
"Go to hell."
Rocco pressed harder.
"And who in the D'Angelo family?"
The man's breath caught.
Looked at me.
Smiled.
"You already know."
Rocco slit his throat without hesitation.
The room went silent but for the dripping of blood onto concrete.
I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, ignoring the fresh sting in my leg.
My heart was racing, but my mind was calm.
I turned to Rocco.
“Someone close to my father.”
He nodded grimly.
“And they’re working with ghosts.”
The phone was still on the table, the call open.
Rafael’s voice crackled back to life.
“We’re sending men. They’ll be there in five.”
“No need,” Rocco said, his voice low and dangerous.
"It's done."
I removed the dead man's phone from his pocket, scrolling quickly.
A message stared at me on the screen:
"The De Luca heir dies tonight. Make sure the girl is collateral."
I swallowed hard.
"Collateral," I said under my breath.
Rocco read the message over my shoulder.
His face darkened.
"They wanted to make a statement."
I glanced at him.
"They wanted to watch me die."
Rafael's voice on the phone.
"Get to the compound. Now."
Rocco didn't argue.
He pulled my hand — warm, firm, unshaken.
We hurried, out into the evening.
The streets smelled of rain and seared gasoline.
His car was a block away, two.
We slid into the backseat.
No words.
The silence between us wasn't awkward.
It was heavy.
Measured.
Killing.
He glanced at me once, brown eyes skimming my face like he was digging for something in me, far inside.
I held his.
Unflinching .
"I'm not collateral," I whispered.
His mouth twitched.
"No. You're a threat."
The car pulled up in front of the De Luca compound gates.
Guards poured out.
Rafael stood at the door.
At his side, Rosalia, worry carved into her elegant features.
We moved in silence.
The war room was cold, metal and maps.
Rafael's eyes pinned me.
"Someone in your father's inner circle is attempting to kill you."
I nodded.
"I know."
"Do you trust him?" he asked, jerking his head towards Rocco.
I didn't even bat an eye.
"Yes."
Rocco didn't bat an eye either.
But I saw the fleeting shock in his eyes.
Rafael exhaled.
"We hit back within forty-eight hours."
I moved towards the door.
"I'll have names in the morning."
Rocco's voice stopped me.
"You're not going anywhere by yourself."
I looked over my shoulder.
"I don't need a babysitter."
He walked towards me.
"I'm not volunteering."
Rafael looked at us.
"You'll stay here tonight. The doctor is on his way to take care of your leg.”
I started to protest, but Rocco's hold on my lower back was firm, silent command and reassurance blended.
I nodded once.
"Thank you."
Rosalia smiled at me, her eyes warm.
"Come, I'll show you your room for the night."
I followed her behind, noticing Rocco's eyes on me until I disappeared up the stairs.
The doctor came in a few minutes later and attended to my leg and I kept thinking of the best revenge. In a space of how many days we’ve been attacked back to back and I’ve been shot twice.
I sat in a guest room, having showered, wearing one of the silk robes Rosalia offered.
My shoulder ached, my leg burned.
But my mind was clear.
I couldn't sit still.
I moved to the window, gazing out over the courtyard below.
The De Lucas moved like shadows at night — trained, acute, lethal.
A knock at the door.
I turned around.
Rocco walked in uninvited.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his eyes black and unyielding.
"How's the leg?"
"Fine."
He studied me for a long moment, like he could see right through the silk and into the storm brewing beneath my skin.
“You’re not shaken.”
I met his gaze without flinching.
“I don’t shake.”
He smirked slightly.
“I noticed.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with something electric.
He walked towards me slowly.
Deliberate. Measured.
He stopped a breath away.
"I've dealt with a lot of powerful men and lethal women," he muttered under his breath.
"But you… you're different."
I arched an eyebrow.
"Disappointed?"
His lips curled into a slow, cruel smile.
"Not even a little."
He turned to leave, for the door.
But just as he was making his escape, he cast a glance over his shoulder.
"Get some rest, Fiorella. Tomorrow… hunt."
The door closed behind him.
And I remained there stand still for a very long moment, my heart pounding, not from fear —
But in expectation.
I finally got into bed, letting the weight of tiredness drag me down.
But in the moments right before sleep claimed me, one vision rang loudly in my head:
I don't tremble. But I do burn.
And Rocco De Luca was gasoline.