Chapter 181 Rocco
Morning crept into the mansion on hesitant feet.
It slipped through the sheer curtains, pale gold and shy, brushing the edges of the room as though unsure it was welcome. The city beneath me was beginning its daily hum, but up here, everything was still, suspended in a fragile kind of peace that had taken blood, sweat, and grief to earn.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing beside me.
Now, Fiorella slept on her stomach, her cheek half-buried in my chest, her hand curved around my ribs like it belonged there. Even sleeping, she held on, her eyebrows smoothing only when her fingers grazed the bandage beneath the thin shirt I was wearing.
A reminder that I was still healing.
This was a reminder that I had almost left this world without saying everything to her.
I shifted my head a little to the side and watched her. Haphazard strands of dark hair had come loose from her braid and now curled softly about her face. Her parted lips shaped small breaths, exhaled warmth mantling my skin. The slightest furrowing pulled at the corner of her brows-as if she were in the middle of some dream, one that was bothering her enough she still held to me for comfort.
Even asleep, she was fierce there.
It hit me then, the heaviest, most beautiful realization:
In a matter of weeks… she'd be my wife.
The thought caused my chest to tighten.
I'd faced men with guns pointed at my head with less fear than I felt right now. Not a fear of danger-but of magnitude. Of everything that title meant. Protector. Partner. Husband. A future where every choice I made didn't just affect me, but her… and the children we were already daring to imagine.
I brushed my thumb lightly along her shoulder, careful of her sleep.
“So this is what peace feels like,” I whispered to the quiet room.
She shifted, emitting a small noise, and snuggled in closer.
And the world made sense.
⸻
The kitchen was noisier.
Rafael was already there when I walked in, his sleeves rolled and leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee clutched in one hand. He lifted an eyebrow as he saw me.
"Look at you," he said. "Alive. Almost handsome again."
I reached for my own mug, scoffing. “Almost?”
“You're still patchy. Give it time.”
Riccardo's voice came floating in from behind me. I already knew he'd be wearing a smirk.
“Well, if you don't want him, Fiorella will.” He clapped my shoulder. “Which is unfortunate, really. Because now I'm the only untouched, stress-free, incredibly attractive bachelor in this family.”
Rafael replied casually, "You dated a bartender for three hours and cried when she blocked your number.
"Blocked?" Riccardo gasped. "She changed her phone."
I snorted before I could stop it, pain tugging at my healing side as I did. Rafael noticed, instantly sobering.
"How you feeling, really?" he asked, voice lowering.
I breathed in. "Still stitched. Still alive. I'll take it."
Riccardo poured himself coffee. “You scared the hell out of her, you know.”
I didn't need him to say her name. Fiorella's fear had been written into every line of her face as she stood in the hospital room beside my bed, holding my hand like she would stitch me back together by sheer will alone.
“She loves you though,” he said, continuing. “I can see it.”
Something heavy twisted inside me.
“I'll always show her too ,” I said quietly.
⸻
Later that morning, she came down the marble staircase in a soft cream dress that clung to her waist, her hair half-pulled back, and every man in the room went still.
It wasn't even about beauty anymore.
It was about presence.
About power restrained under silk, about life blooming where chaos had tried to claim everything.
Hers met mine the instant -
“You should be resting,” she said.
“I was,” I said. “Then I woke up alone.”
Her expression softened. She crossed the space separating us and pressed the side of my face briefly, as if to confirm the truth of me.
“I had to see if the sun was real today.”
“And?” I asked.
“It is.”
Her smile belonged to nothing else in this world.
Riccardo cleared his throat dramatically. "So, uh, about this wedding date…”
Fiorella’s face colored faint pink. “Yes?”
“You two know you're torturing everyone by delaying it, right?” he continued. “The staff has bets going. I hear the gardeners are taking sides.”
“On what?” she laughed.
“Whether he cries first, or you do.”
I opened my mouth to insult him, but she laughed-a real laugh, free and bright-and it felt like a bell ringing through my chest.
“It’s less than three weeks now,” she said finally.
Rafael froze. "Three weeks?"
Riccardo lowered the mug a little. “Three. Weeks.”
I nodded. "Enough time. Not too long. Not enough for doubt to creep in."
Silence sat for a moment.
Then Rafael moved forward and embraced me, rough, fierce, habitually unbrotherly for him.
“I’m proud of you,” he muttered.
Next was Riccardo in the mess of limbs, hugging far too tight. “Don’t die again, live long or not, don’t die though.” he added.
“I wasn’t planning to.” I huffed.
“But if you do, I’m keeping the penthouse.”
"Over my dead body."
“That was the original plan.”
Fiorella watched us, her hand over her mouth, laughing.
I walked beside her to her mother’s home that evening.
No guards, no cars trailing.
Just us on the cobblestone sidewalk, fingers brushing, shoulders bumping occasionally, as if we were simply an ordinary couple doing ordinary things.
The world did not grind to a halt because we dared to love in it.
Her mother opened the door with a warm gasp and pulled her into an embrace so tender it ached to witness.
"My girl…" she whispered, holding her tightly.
Then she looked at me with shining eyes. "And you… kept your promise."
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
She took my hands in hers, squeezing. “I see how she looks at you. That’s all the proof I need.”
Dinner was simple, home-cooked. Laughter filled the room like music. Stories were told I had never heard, about Fiorella as a child, stubborn, fiery, determined to climb the highest tree no matter how dangerous.
"I warned her about falling," her mother said with a soft chuckle.
“She never listens,” I replied.
Fiorella rolled her eyes. “And you’re any better?”
“No,” her mother agreed warmly. “Which means you are perfect for each other.”
Under the table, she laced her fingers through mine.
And just like that, all the battlefields on which I had ever stood faded into something distant, meaningless.
All that mattered was this moment.
This future.
This woman.
⸻
As we were leaving later that night, she stopped me under the dim amber glow of the streetlamp.
“You know,” she whispered, stepping closer, “once we’re married… there’s no backing out.”
“Good,” I whispered. “Then I'll finally be able to sleep, not afraid the world will steal you from me.”
She tilted her head. “It won’t.”
“How do you know?”
"Because I'm choosing you. Every day. Every lifetime that might exist after this one."
I kissed her then, slow, deep, reverent. A kiss that wasn’t about hunger or desperation but about belonging.
A promise sealed in breath and heartbeat. And as I laid my forehead against hers, the only thought that reverberated in my mind was this: I survived for her. And now, I'll live for her.