Chapter 19 Rocco
The meeting was a storm in abeyance.
Rafael spoke strategy. Riccardo joshed with black menace. But all I could think about was her.
Fiorella sat across from me in Rafael's office, back straight, eyes flashing, every word calculated and in control. She talked like someone used to giving orders, and I bristled at how much I liked it.
“We'll redeploy our men to defend the east perimeter at dusk," she told me.
I shook my head. "We've already taken it. My men are familiar with the terrain."
Her eyes flashed to mine — steel against steel.
"I trust my men," she said, her voice soft, but the challenge clear.
I leaned forward. "And I trust mine.".
The battle of wills sparked between us, heavy enough that Rafael cleared his throat and spoke of answering a call outside. Riccardo followed him, but first gave me a pointed smile. He felt the tension too.
The moment the door shut, there was silence.
Me and her alone.
I took my time, walking to the bar to prepare a drink I didn't need. I could feel her eyes burning into the back of me.
"You don't enjoy being questioned," she said softly, nearly smiling.
I faced her. "And you don't enjoy relinquishing control."
Her lips curved, but there was no warmth behind it. "Why would I, when I do it better?"
That did it.
I strode across the room in three strides, halting just in front of her.
"You actually believe you're invincible," I whispered.
She tilted her head back, not so much as a blink. "I know I am."
We stood, breath to breath.
She smelled of danger, wrapped in something sweet, gunpowder mixed with vanilla.
I wanted to fight her.
I wanted to ruin her.
I grasped her wrist, hard but softly. She did not pull back. Her pulse trembled under my thumb, a betrayal she could not hide.
Her eyes locked on mine.
“If you're going to do it, De Luca," she whispered, "do it."
I didn't think.
I kissed her.
It wasn't careful or soft. It was raw and brutal, teeth and flame and rage flaring between us.
She kissed me back for a moment, wild and famished.
Then her hands pushed me hard, and she wrenched away, gasping, eyes blazing.
"Don't ever think you can control me," she snarled.
I smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it.".
Her lips had parted as if to say something else, but she turned on her heel and walked away, the door swinging open behind her.
I stood there, panting, blood pounding.
I had not lost that battle.
Neither had she.
This war between us?
It had only just started.
I couldn't help thinking of that kiss.
The taste lingered on my lips, biting, sweet, and defiant.
Fiorella D'Angelo wasn't some other mouthy mafia princess with sin screamers for curves. She was a hurricane wrapped in a silk dress, and I was the idiot who stood in the centre of it, provoking it to rip me to shreds.
I poured another shot into the dark stillness of my office, observing through the window as city lights melted into darkness.
I kissed her to make my point.
But now I found myself imagining how it would be to have her entirely, to see her break down before me, to hear her plead for something she'd insisted she didn't require from a man.
Only. I knew.
Fiorella was not a woman to plead.
She'd insist.
She'd fight.
She'd fight to hold on even in the midst of submission.
And hell if that didn't make me want her more.
The door slammed open behind me.
Rafael's voice cut through.
"She pushed you, didn't she?"
I didn't turn. "Hard."
He chuckled softly, moving across the room to stand beside me.
"She's dangerous," he said, taking a sip of his whiskey.
"So am I."
"Not the same way."
I finally turned to look at him. "You think I can't handle her?
Rafael grinned, but there was warning there. "You try. But she's not one of your tarts you throw over your shoulder in the morn."
"She's silk and steel with power behind." "You make a challenge at her, and she'll roast you alive."
Maybe.
I wanted to see if I could play the fire.
The second day, we re-met -- this time in the harbour.
Weapons trade. Neutrality grounds. Cold wind blowing around us, crates off black trucks, our soldiers moving quietly.
I saw her the moment she approached.
Black leather jacket, blue jeans, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. No hint of weakness anywhere. Her face was like stone, cool, professional.
But her eyes cut straight across mine, and for a moment, just a moment,, I saw passion.
Then it was gone.
She stepped forward boldly. "All set?"
I nodded. "My men rechecked the shipment."
She looked past my shoulder to the crates. "I trust them."
But she did not look at the guns.
She looked at me.
And in that regard was a challenge so deafening it almost echoed.
Try me.
I inched closer. Too close. Close enough for her perfume to curl into my lungs again.
"You're skilled at hiding it," I breathed.
"Hiding what?"
"'The fact that you like this fight between as much as I do.'
She smiled slowly and perilously. 'I don't like fights I can't win.'
I leaned towards her. 'Neither do I.'
We remained there, locked in silent battle, until one of the crates cracked open.
She looked away first, sidling around me to inspect the weapons with intelligent eyes and practical fingers.
I saw her move by inches — the way her fingers moved over the metal, sure and steady.
No fear.
Only control.
And I wanted to ruin it.
I wanted to see what she looked like when she wasn't in control.
She finished her inspection and turned to me. "Looks good."
I nodded once.
She started to turn away, but I caught her wrist.
She stopped.
Her eyes rose to mine, cold and angry.
"Let go," she whispered.
But I didn't.
"You push me once," I whispered. "Fine. But don't think for a moment that I'll ever cease coming after what I want."
Her eyes flared with something dark. "And don't think for a moment that you'll ever get it."
I let go of my grip slowly, so that her wrist escaped my hand.
Her breathing caught, by the smallest of margins.
She turned and stalked away, saying nothing further.
But her shoulders were knotted.
And I knew that I'd struck a chord within her.
I didn't need easy.
I needed her flames.
I wanted to conquer her.
But greater than that.
I wanted to know if she could conquer me.