Chapter 167 Fiorella
The first sensation was one of weight, a heavy, throbbing sinking weight across my body. It dragged me somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, a warm yet aching place, where every limb seemed too heavy to belong to me.
Then came sound.
A steady beeping.
Soft footsteps.
A distant voice murmuried instructions.
My breath hitched, sharp and painful. My eyes fluttered, but the light stabbed into my skull, so I squeezed them shut again with a pained tear sliding out.
Where am I?
I forced my eyes open once more, this time slowly, letting the blur sharpen into shapes: the white ceiling, wide; the gray curtain around the bed; the sharp scent of antiseptic crawling into my lungs.
A hospital.
Of course.
My body remembered before my mind did, the sting in my shoulder, the ache in my ribs, the bruises on my knees, the smoke in my throat. And Rocco's hands… dragging me through flames… holding me up when my legs failed… whispering for me to stay awake…
My heart clenched.
I turned my head weakly, my cheek against the cool pillow.
And that’s when memory slammed back into me.
My mother.
“N…no,” I whispered, pushing myself up on trembling arms. “Mamma.”
Immediately, a nurse bustled in. “Miss Fiorella, lie back-your body is still recovering-”
“How long has it been? Where’s my mother?” My voice cracked over the word.
The nurse blinked at me, her expression softening in surprise. "Three days. She's safe. She woke up before you. She's in the recovery ward across the hall."
The breath I exhaled wasn't just relief; it was a sob, silently torn from the center of my chest. I fell back against the pillows, my lashes wet, the room spinning with release.
She's alive.
She's real.
I didn't imagine her.
I didn't lose her again.
"M-may I see her?" I asked.
The nurse nodded. “She’s awake and asking for you. I’ll bring her here.”
A few moments later,
And there she was.
She sat upright, her gown loose across bruised ribs, her hair tangled but familiar, too familiar to be a dream. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow but steady.
She stepped inside.
She stared at me for a while.
And I stared back.
Then her face crumpled, softly, quietly. Not with loud sobs or shaking hysteria. No, my mother never cried loudly. Even her grief was elegant.
“Fiorella,” she whispered.
She didn't walk to her.
She ran.
The bed protested as she flung myself onto it, her arms wrapping around me with a desperation I hadn't felt since the day I thought I buried her. Her hands rose shakily to cradle my head.
“My baby…” she breathed.
I broke.
My tears weren't gentle. They fell hot and merciless down my face, soaking into her gown, shaking through my ribs until she stroked my back in small circles.
“I thought I lost you,” I choked. “I thought… thought you were dead—I—”
“I know,” she whispered against my hair. “I know, tesoro. I’m so sorry… so sorry you had to live with that pain.”
I pulled back, wiping my face with trembling fingers. "Why? Why did you let me think you were gone? Why didn't you come home? Why didn't you show yourself at Papà's funeral? I was alone. I—" My voice cracked again. "I needed you."
She cupped my face, her thumb brushing a tear away.
“If I could have come to you… I would have. But if I had, you would be dead too.”
My chest tightened. "What do you mean?"
“I didn’t fake my death because I wanted to.” Her eyes darkened with painful memories. “I was forced into hiding. Your father’s enemies… especially Vittorio and Philippe… were circling like vultures ever since you were born, they wanted control and knew I was your father’s weakness. After an attack they orchestrated, your dad and I felt it was best I played dead. But your uncles have been plotting even before your father died. He wanted leverage. Power. Control of our family’s inheritance. And me being alive was a threat to the deal he was forcing your father into.”
My breath hitched.
“But when your father passed…” She swallowed. “I wanted to reveal myself at the funeral. I was ready to break all the rules, consequences be damned. I wanted to hold you. I wanted to see you cry and tell you you weren’t alone—"
Her voice cracked.
“But Philippe found me first.”
I froze.
"He told me he'd help me reach you safely. That he'd escort me discreetly so I could see you. I was foolish. I believed him." She looked away, a flicker of shame crossing her bruised features. "I didn't know he set me up. He delivered me straight to Nek's men."
A sharp, cold fury sliced through me.
Nek.
“After that… they kept me moving. Different basements, different hideouts, always dark, always cold. I didn’t know how much time had passed. I didn’t know if you were alive… or if you were safe. I just prayed every day that my daughter was stronger than fate.”
I leaned my forehead against hers. "I thought I failed you."
“You saved me,” she whispered. “Even if you didn’t know how yet. You saved me.”
We stayed that way, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, hearts beating against bruises and memories, until a nurse gently reminded her she needed rest.
My mother leaned forward and kissed my forehead lightly. “Rest too, amore. Let the doctors take care of you.”
“I will,” I lied.
She gave me a knowing look but didn't argue as they helped her go back.
I stepped out of her room, wiping away the last dampness from my eyes.
And immediately asked the nurse, “Rocco?”
“He hasn’t left the waiting area since they brought you in.”
My heart skipped.
I didn't know which version of him I would get.
The furious one who walked out on me?
The one that looked betrayed?
The one whose anger cut through me worse than any knife?
Or the one who carried me out of a burning building like nothing else in the world mattered?
“Please let him know that I’m awake.”
A few minutes later, he was standing by the door.
Those brown eyes, dark, molten, burning with emotions he didn’t name, hit me like a punch.
We stared.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us breathed.
Then I whispered, "Rocco."
He walked towards me.
Not hurried. Not angry.
Just… drawn. Like something inside him refused to stay seated.
“Fiorella.” My name came out rough, low, full of something that made my chest tighten.
For a moment, neither of us knew what to say.
Then, like a ghost, the memory of our last argument rose between us, about a betrayal he'd discovered, about the way he walked away from me.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered.
His jaw clenched.
I stepped closer. “I’m sorry for what I did. For not telling you. For making you think I chose anyone over you. I never meant to hurt you. I just… I didn’t see another way. My mother—”
He exhaled sharply, his words cutting me off, staring at me as though the sight of me alive was both a relief and a torment.
“It doesn’t matter no more,” he said quietly.
I blinked, dumbfounded. “What?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He closed the distance between us slowly, cautiously, as though approaching something fragile despite knowing I was anything but. “I almost lost you. That’s the only thing replaying in my head. Not the betrayal. Not the fight. Not the secrets.
He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my forehead.
“You drive me insane, Fiorella,” he whispered. “I have been in love with you since the day you walked into my life like a storm I didn't see coming. And I need to know, where do you stand now? After everything? After this?”
My breath caught.
His thumb traced the edge of my cheekbone.
“I need to know what you want. What you choose. What you feel.”
It only took me two heartbeats to answer.
Then I lifted my hand, laid it over his racing heart, and whispered the truth I'd been running from:
“I want you, Rocco. I choose you Rocco, I love you Rocco.”
His breath caught.
“I need you.” His eyes closed, just for a second, as if the words hit somewhere deep. When he opened them again, everything inside him was unmasked, unfiltered, burning with a vulnerability he never gave to anyone but me.
He leaned in. Pressed a soft, trembling kiss to my forehead.
And whispered against my skin, "I’ll always want you Fi.”