Chapter 170 Rocco
It’s been more than a month now since everything went down.
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white outside the car window, but I barely noticed. Fiorella's hand on my thigh anchored me far more than the wheel ever could. The warmth of her skin pressed through the fabric, subtle, teasing, enough to make my pulse jump and my mind forget everything else.
I looked over at her, catching sight of her silent stare out at the onrushing lights, lips parted slightly, eyelashes casting soft shadows across her cheeks. Even in her rare quiet moments, she had ways of drawing the whole of me toward her like a gravity I never wanted to resist.
“You’re staring,” she murmured without turning.
“I’m… admiring,” I said, my voice low, roughened with something she didn’t need to know, something she probably already guessed.
Finally, she turned, her green eyes catching mine in the dim light, and the tiniest smirk curled her lips. “Admiring… huh? You mean wanting to devour me?”
I laughed low and dangerous, and she leaned in, the curve of her body against mine igniting something primal. “Maybe.”
She rolled her eyes, but her breath hitched. “Rocco…”
I didn't answer. Instead, I reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, allowing my fingers to linger against her cheek. The touch was electric-soft, intimate. Her lips parted almost instinctively, and I didn't need another invitation.
The kiss started soft, just a brushing of lips, testing, tasting, but it didn't stay that way. My hand cupped her jaw, tilting her head slightly, pulling her closer. She melted against me, fingers sliding under my shirt, the warmth of her touch igniting a fire that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with her.
We were parked in front of the restaurant now, forgotten entirely. I deepened the kiss, lips and tongue moving together in a dance that had waited to happen since the moment she entered my life. All the stress, all the chaos, every second spent apart seemed to pour into this one moment.
Her hands tangled in my hair, and I groaned softly, the sound low in my chest. The world outside no longer existed. There were no explosions, no threats, no betrayals. Just us.
She pulled back just a little, her breathing ragged, her cheeks flushed. "Rocco," she whispered, voice trembling with both laughter and desire. "If we go in there like this, they'll never let us sit."
I grinned, pressing my forehead to hers. "Then we don't care."
She laughed softly, and it was like music. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” I teased.
"I do," she confessed, and within that simple admission, a shiver coursed down my spine. Her honesty, her vulnerability, it anchored me more than anything in this world ever had.
By the time we made it to the restaurant, we had kissed again and again, stolen moments of fire and laughter; it was then that I finally pulled back far enough to focus on the task at hand: dinner. But even across the table, our hands found each other-fingers laced, subtle touches grazing across knuckles and palms, silent messages of desire and connection.
We talked, yes-about menus, about the day-but everything was tinged with longing. A glance across the candlelight from her, the brush of her hand against mine, the twitch of her lips as she laughed at something I said-all spoke louder than words ever could.
“And the wedding,” she leaned in closer, whispering, “have you really thought about it?
My thumb brushed circles on the back of her hand. "Every detail. Every second. You, me, no one else. Just us. Well… and our families.”
Her eyes softened, and she propped her chin on her hand as she looked at me like I was some rare treasure she was finally allowed to keep. “I've never felt this way,” she admitted. “Not with anyone.”
“You’ve never loved anyone like this?” I asked, leaning in closer, my voice low.
She shook her head, the heat rising in her cheeks. “No. Not even close.”
The space between us was gone again, and we kissed. This time, slow, deliberate, hungry yet tender. Every movement spoke of trust, of surrender, of the fierce love that had grown between the chaos. My hands moved cautiously, imprinting on memory the warmth of her body against mine, the curve of her shoulders, the softness of her waist.
She pressed against me, and for a moment I thought the world outside had shattered and left only this. Only her. Only us.
By the time we left the restaurant, the night had deepened. The city lights blurred into a haze as we drove back to my penthouse, our fingers entwined, our hearts racing, and pulses in sync.
Once inside, I didn't give her a second to breathe. My lips found hers again, hands tugging her close, pressing her against me, tasting every part of her with the intensity of a man who'd almost lost her, never wanting to. She laughed into the kiss, and I groaned, pulling her closer, letting her sink against me as I carried her toward the bedroom.
We didn't stop for long. Clothes fell away, touches grew bolder, skin against skin, the heat building till it was almost unbearable. The world outside-the Valenti, Camillo, the debts, the betrayals-everything faded into shadows. There was only this. Only her. Only us.
Hours later, we lay tangled together, our limbs intertwined, her soft breathing against my chest, her hair a wild halo across the pillows. I pressed a kiss to her temple, then her forehead. “You drive me crazy,” I whispered. “I love you. I need you. And I want you, every second.”
She smiled sleepily, curling closer. "I love you too. I need you too. I want… you."
Morning came soft and golden, the light brushing against her face as I woke first. She stirred, eyes fluttering open, and smiled sleepily. “Good morning,” she whispered.
“Good morning,” I returned, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
We lay there a moment, before slipping into our day, coffee, quieted laughter, playful teasing, and soft touches that reminded us why survival mattered, why love mattered, and how real the life we were rebuilding together was.
But reality never stayed buried for long.
The phone buzzed at the penthouse. It was a video call.
I didn't need to see the name for the heat in my chest to spike. I reached for the phone. Rafael and Riccardo were instantly there, sensing it before I uttered a word.
It was Rosalia's father.
He had run up new debts with the Valenti.
In an instant, Rafael's face darkened and his fists clenched. "Are you kidding me? After everything… everything we've been through? We can't afford this again. We've lost enough already."
Riccardo leaned back, arms crossed, his expression sharp, calculating. “It's not about being angry. It's about being efficient. He owes them. It's best we finish him, and act unbothered.”
The room was silent. Tension hung in the air, thick enough to taste. I felt my jaw tighten, anger coiling in my chest. The thought of our family being pulled into another Valenti scheme after everything? I couldn't deal with it.
I placed the phone back into the bed stand, gaze hard and unwavering. “We handle it on our terms. Calm, precise. No mistakes. We've survived worse.”
Rafael grunted, his glare still fixed on the empty space the threat had entered our lives through. “Survived worse, yes, but we can’t survive this recklessness.”
Riccardo smiled slightly. "Then we make him understand why messing with us has consequences."
And then I saw it.
A name I hoped I'd never see again.
Camillo.
The text was simple. Cold. Unforgiving.
“You can never get rid of me. —C”
I dropped the phone onto the bed, my chest tightening, pulse hammering, and looked at Fiorella.
She squeezed my hand, sensing the storm already brewing. I clenched my jaw. Camillo was alive.
He was back. And we weren't done yet.