Chapter 21 Rocco
The moment I stepped inside through the front door, I knew.
Blood. Gunpowder. Adrenaline.
It clung in the air like incense following flames.
She was there in her house — bare feet, stained silk robe. Her hair mussed, a smear of blood on her cheek that wasn't hers. Her eyes focused on mine, unyielding, firm.
Fiorella D'Angelo. Fearless. Undisturbed by chaos.
I slammed the door shut harder than I meant to. My boots banged against the marble as I walked across the room.
"I heard," I growled, my voice rougher than it should have been.
She just nodded, as if I'd spoken something self-evident.
"I handled it."
I clenched my teeth.
I'd seen the security footage. Van pulling up to her compound, men with masks jumping out. Her guys falling fast. And then her, advancing like a bitching queen, gun in her hand, precision cold and perfect.
I should've been there.
I should've been the one to pull the trigger with her, not seeing it on some fucking monitor.
"That's not the point," I growled.
She took a step nearer. Barefoot. Indifferent. As if she hadn't just walked through hell and come out the other side with a smile.
"Then tell me the point, Rocco. That I was supposed to wait for you to show up and rescue me? That I was supposed to hide while men come to kill me?"
She tilted her head, eyes shining like metal under moonlight.
"I don't hide."
My anger churned deep in my stomach.
"I could've been there," I snapped.
She raised one eyebrow. "And done what? Protected me? Taken the bullet for me ? I'm not one of your delicate women who need protecting."
I didn't know whether to shake her or kiss her.
I reached out before I could stop myself, my fingers tracing her jaw. There was a bruise forming there. Anger seethed in my chest.
"I don't like it when people hurt you," I growled, surprised at how raw it came out.
Her breath hitched, nearly. She tried to hide it, but I caught it.
Her eyes scanned mine, and for one moment — one beat — the world was just her and me, balanced on the edge of something wrong.
"Since when do you care?" she breathed.
I didn't answer.
I didn't know how.
But rather than filling the distance, I closed it. Slowly. Consciously. My hand inched around her neck, fingers threaded into the wet strands of her hair.
I could feel her pulse beating against my palm.
I knew I should step away. But I didn't.
My lips grazed hers.
She didn't move.
Neither did I.
And in that instant, I wanted to conquer her — and I knew she would never let me.
My lips brushed against hers. Barely. Enough to send defiance and danger past my lips.
She stiffened, and I didn't get a chance to press in further before she pushed me back. Hard.
Her eyes flared like wildfire.
"Don't ever think that you can intimidate me, Rocco De Luca," she hissed, her voice ice and fire both.
I smiled. "I wouldn't dare."
The space between us crackled, heavy enough to suffocate on.
But before either of us could say —
Gunfire cut through the night.
We both turned simultaneously, guns in hand in seconds.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I answered it, not breaking eye contact with the windows.
Riccardo was short.
"Two of our warehouses, hit. Full of Marchesi's men."
I glanced at Fiorella.
"They're coming for us all."
She nodded once.
"We strike back," she said bluntly, already moving towards the door.
I caught her arm.
"You're staying the night at our home," I told her, my voice leaving room for no refusal.
She blinked.
"I don't need—"
I cut her off.
"I wasn't asking."
Her gaze narrowed.
A challenge. Good. I liked challenges.
I phoned Rafael.
"We have a backup situation at the D'Angelo house. They're escalating."
"We're on our way," Rafael said.
I stuffed the phone into my pocket.
Fiorella was already more than halfway to the door.
"Fiorella," I called.
She turned, gasping for air, eyes cold.
"You don't have to do it all yourself."
She gave me a look that said otherwise and disappeared into the night.
I followed behind her.
But we didn't even get out to the car before her phone buzzed.
She glanced down.
Her face went white.
I took the phone from her.
Next target: Your family.
My chest tightened.
"We move. Now," I ordered.
She didn't argue this time.
And as we slid into the car, I knew two things:
This war had just gotten personal.
And I wasn't letting her out of my sight.
I did not sleep.
By morning, every lead had been squeezed out of the rats in the crevices of the city.
I rode in the back of the black SUV, tapping the tip of my finger on the handle of my knife. Riccardo drove, silent. He knew the look on my face.
We found them.
A Marchesi safe house in the industrial district. Three stories. Guarded. Arrogant
Fools.
I cracked my neck, rotated my wrists, and exited before the car had time to fully stop.
"Rocco," Riccardo barked, but I was already walking.
I wanted them to notice me approaching.
I wanted them to realize who sent them to straight to hell.
The first guard stepped out with a cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes widened too late. I stabbed my knife into his throat, twisted it, and dropped him like garbage.
The door creaked under my boot.
They scrambled, guns raised.
I didn't flinch.
One shot was fired, grazed my arm. I ignored it. The second shot never left the gun. I put two rounds into the shooter's chest and kept walking.
I could hear them screaming in fear.
They were not soldiers.
They were cowards who played at war.
Another came towards me with a bat.
Let him come close enough to swing. Sidestepped.
My elbow shattered his nose. Blood spattered. He whimpered. I slit his throat and proceeded on.
The third floor, that's where I wanted them.
I kicked the door open.
Three men inside.
One of them, right hand man to Don Marchesi.
He went pale.
"Rocco ... this… this wasn't personal."
I smiled.
"That's the problem."
I shot the first man in the kneecap. He screamed like a pig.
The second attempted to run.
Riccardo caught him in the doorway and hurled him back into the room like trash.
The room stank of sweat and fear.
I stood over him.
"You touched what's mine."
I left those words to float between us.
He started begging.
Pathetic.
I drove my knife into his thigh, not fatal, but hard enough to get him screaming.
"Names," I whispered.
He spat them out, four men who ordered the attack.
I stood.
"The Marchesi family," I said to Riccardo, "just signed their death warrant."
Riccardo's head went up and down sternly.
I looked back down.
"We’re going to take you down."
Then I pulled the trigger.
Blood spattered my shoes. I didn't care.
We burned down the safe house on our exit. Smoke swirled into the early morning air — a message that everyone in the city would know.
I didn't finish there.
By dark, three Marchesi warehouses were burning. Their shipments diverted.
Bodies left on the docks with De Luca etched into their chests.
I wanted them frightened.
I wanted them to know that putting hands on what belongs to me, my family, my business, or her, was the end.
At the mansion, Rafael served himself a drink, his eyes fixed on me from across the room.
"You delivered the message," he said softly.
I downed whiskey in one gulp, my blood still blazing.
"They'll never forget it."
He stared at me for a long time.
"And Fiorella?"
I clenched my jaw.
“She’s safe. But I’m not letting her out of my sight.”