Chapter 17 Rocco
I closed her door softly behind me, but her presence remained, burning, fierce, and impossible to resist.
Fiorella D'Angelo was not what I had anticipated.
I expected arrogance, maybe vanity, a princess whose head was too big for a crown.
A queen instead.
All angles and metal beneath silk.
I descended the hall, the stairs echoing through the quiet of the De Luca compound.
I should have gone straight to my room, but my mind was troubled.
Instead, I found myself in Rafael's study.
He was already there, a glass of whiskey in his hand, eyes black and unreadable.
Riccardo was lying on the couch, surfing something on his phone, but at the sight of me, his focus shifted to me.
Rafael didn't ask.
He poured a glass and pushed it across the gleaming desk.
"She's not just her father's daughter," I said after a moment, mixing the amber liquid.
"No," Rafael agreed. "She's worse."
I laughed dryly, without mirth.
"She never even batted an eye tonight. Took out two men before I even pulled out my gun."
"She's deadly," Riccardo growled, finally laying his phone down.
I recalled how she looked at me, unmoved, unapologetic.
She never blinked under pressure. She never gave in.
There was something feral in her, something uncharted that called to every violent part of me.
"I do not mind chaos," I said quietly.
Rafael's brow went up.
"Be careful, Rocco. You know what happens when you mess with fire."
"I've never been afraid of getting burned."
Riccardo exhaled slowly.
"She's not like the women you've fought with, brother. She won't break."
"I don't want her to break," I said.
And I meant it.
I wanted her exactly as she was — fierce, impossible, untouchable.
Rafael relaxed back, his calculating eyes watching me with that selfsame intensity he'd honed since the day he took our father's place.
"Alessandro is seeking loyalty. But what he's really hoping for… is a match."
"I don't do arranged," I replied curtly.
"No," Rafael concurred, his smile flashing. "But you do obsession."
I said nothing.
I drank the whiskey and got to my feet.
"I'll be out early," I told him. "I have to scan the perimeter and double up security detail."
"Rocco."
I paused.
Rafael's tone turned to steel.
"If you're going to fall for her, do it for the right reasons. Not because she challenges you. Not because she mirrors the darker parts of you."
I remained silent.
But I knew the reply was already in.
It was too late.
I hardly slept.
By morning, I was up and out, pacing the grounds of the compound.
The men nodded as I passed, respect evident.
My reputation wasn't built on the De Luca name.
It was built on blood, discipline, and the fact that I wouldn't tolerate mistakes.
I walked back towards the house when I heard footsteps.
I didn't have to turn around.
Her presence was a shift in the air — thick, electric.
"Early riser," I grumbled without looking around.
"Habit," she replied, falling into step beside me.
She wore black leather jacket, close-fitting pants, hair tied back in a hard knot.
Even after what we'd done the previous night, her eyes were bright and hard.
I got a glimpse of her shoulder.
"How's the wound?"
"I've had worse."
We walked in silence for a moment, the cold morning air biting at skin still warm from adrenaline.
"You don't trust easily," she said suddenly.
"No."
"Neither do I."
I faced her, my back to the wall.
She met my eyes without flinching.
"I wasn't raised to trust," I whispered.
"I was raised to command. To lead. To never be weak."
"Same."
We shouldn't have been so similar.
But we were.
She nodded her head by a fraction, a glint in her eyes that I couldn't read.
"You don't like people pushing you."
"No."
She smiled.
"I'm not going to stop."
My lips smiled back.
"I don't want you to."
We were two storms dancing around each other, waiting for the crash.
Before I could think better of it, I reached out and touched my fingers to her good shoulder.
She didn't step away.
There was fire between us, hot, seething, volatile.
But before it could flare into flame, the phone rang.
I looked at the screen.
Rafael.
I answered.
"What?"
"We have intel," Rafael said to me.
"Your presence. Now."
I hung up the phone and turned to her.
"Coming?"
She nodded almost unnoticeably.
"Always."
We got into my car and drove back to the big house.
The tension between us still lingered, as though something unsaid still hung there.
When we reached the study, Rafael was pacing back and forth, Riccardo with a laptop open before him.
"We found the attackers," Rafael told us bluntly.
"Small group. Linked to the Marchesi family."
Fiorella's expression turned darker.
"My father just brokered a peace with them."
"Apparently," Riccardo drawled, "someone didn't get the memo."
I could feel tension twist in my stomach.
This was not just a random assault.
This was a betrayal.
Rafael's gaze cut to me.
"I want you to go with her. Find out who masterminded this."
"I go," I snapped out without hesitation.
Fiorella's gaze flashed.
"We leave now."
We barely cleared the door when her phone called.
She picked up, and her face went white.
"What is it?" I asked aggressively.
She terminated the call, her voice cold and panting.
"They've attacked one of our convoys."
We sprinted to the vehicles.
The roads blazed past us as we zoomed towards the area of the convoy.
I could feel her fear radiating beside me, but she stayed focused, eyes straight ahead, jaw set.
When we got there, the situation was chaos.
There was smoke billowing.
Men were lying wounded or dead.
The cargo was gone.
And on the road, in blood, were two words:
Stay out.
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
And not a word between us, we both knew —
The air was thick with gasoline and gunpowder.
I stood on the edge of the wreckage of the convoy, smoke curling around us like a spectre. The acrid smell of burned rubber and blood hung heavy in my senses, but all I could think of was her.
Fiorella knelt next to one of the dead, her hands gently closing the man's eyes. A flash of something in her face — not sadness, not gentleness — something hard. A promise of revenge, sworn in silence.
She stood, her eyes on mine.
"They left a message," she breathed, her voice strained.
Stay out.
It was less a threat. It was a challenge.
I breathed deep, my fists at my hips.
"They're stupid or suicidal."
Her lips twisted into the beginning of a smirk. "Or they think we are."
I wanted to laugh at her audacity, but I couldn't. Too much adrenaline flowed through me.
She moved past me, her shoulder colliding with mine.
"We're not going to let this slide," she muttered.
"No," I agreed. "We're not."
We got back into the car in silence.
She sat rigidly next to me, her breathing steady but shallow. I could sense the strain in her shoulders, the war seething just beneath her composed facade.
I drove fast through the city, the streetlights streaming past us in streaks of gold and red.
"Where to?" I asked.
"My father's estate."
I shook my head. "Not safe."
She glared at me.
"I can take care of myself."
"I know," I said flatly. "But tonight, we're not playing games."
She no longer argued the point, and the fact that she remained silent spoke volumes about how much this mattered.
We drove beyond the city limits, into the hills where De Luca safe houses grouped on the black landscape like chess pieces brought to a game.
I drove into one of the compounds, entering the security code. The gates creaked open, and I could feel the world bearing down on us both.
Inside, the house was dark, cold marble floors, hard lines, silent emptiness.
I closed the door behind us and placed my gun on the counter.
Fiorella took off her leather jacket, her movements calculated and controlled.
Beneath the depths of control, I could feel her energy thrumming.
"You're too stiff ," I growled.
She turned, an eyebrow raised.
"So are you."
I took a step closer.
The air between us crackled, charged with something combustible.
"You're reckless," I told her.
"You're controlling," she said.
I nearly smiled.
Nearly.
She moved towards the window, gazing out into the darkness.
Her profile was hard, beautiful, and unyielding.
"I don't like being told what to do," she whispered.
I stood behind her, my breath tickling the loose hairs at her neck.
"And I don't like people walking into traps they can't see coming."
She turned then, regarding me fully.
We were standing too near.
I felt the heat of her skin, the wild pulse in her throat.
"I'm not your responsibility, Rocco."
My name on her lips fire.
Slow, burning, unrelenting.
"Perhaps not," I breathed. "But you're on my ground now. And I protect what's mine."
Her breath faltered, just for a moment.
And in that moment, everything shifted.
I saw it in her eyes, the same desire I had.
The same hunger.
I reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek.
Her skin was soft, warm, electric under my fingers.
“Rocco…” she whispered.
I leaned in.
Close enough to feel the tremble in her breath.
Close enough that all I’d have to do was tilt my head, just a little more, and taste the fire that was her mouth.
Her eyelids flickered shut for a moment, and I knew she had sensed it too.
My lips an inch from hers.
Close.
Too close.
And then
A loud crash from outside.
Both of us tensed.
Guns cocked in a split second.
We looked at each other, gasping, feral.
"Later," I promised on a low snarl.
She nodded once, and we marched off together to face the threat.