Chapter 22 Fiorella
I woke to silence.
Not the kind of silence that calms.
The suffocating kind that presses on your chest.
I opened my eyes to the softness of my room.
I slowly sat up, the throbbing ache in my shoulder reminding me of the chaos of days before.
I heard voices downstairs, low, mumbled, contained.
Rocco: join us for breakfast, there are matters to be discussed
I slid out of bed, freshened up and made my way out.
I didn’t really want to go.
The part of me that always dove headfirst into the flames instead of turning the other way.
That same part told me to stay.
On getting there, the smell of coffee mingled with gun oil and leather.
They were around the massive oak table, papers spread out, maps, photos. All of them sharp and lethal in tailored suits , three predators planning their next kill.
Rocco’s eyes met mine first.
He didn’t smile.
He never smiled.
But his gaze softened just a fraction.
“You’re here,” he said simply.
I nodded, refusing to look away.
I never looked away.
Rafael glanced up next, his arm draped lazily around Rosalia, who sat beside him like a queen, all soft curves and soft eyes.
Riccardo tipped his coffee toward me but said nothing.
“We’re done for now,” Rocco said to his brothers without breaking eye contact with me.
They left without argument.
The room fell into silence again.
He gestured to the chair beside him.
I sat.
He filled coffee, handed me a cup without asking how I took it.
Black, strong, bitter.
Just the way I liked it.
The silence between us deepened.
Not awkward.
Not now.
"You came," he murmured.
"You said matters needed to be addressed."
His jaw was set.
"I'm glad you did."
I gazed at him over the rim of the cup.
My heart was racing more than I wanted to admit.
We spent the day in that room — not two mafia heirs fighting over control, but two predators stalking each other, both cautious, both interested.
We talked business.
Shipments, guns, alliances.
He described his methods, precise, cold, efficient.
I described mine, ruthless, unyielding.
By mid-afternoon, we weren't talking business anymore.
He took me to the shooting range on the lower level.
I impressed him.
He did not say, but I noticed in the darkness growing in his eyes when I hit the centre of each target.
"You've been well-trained," he said softly.
I loaded another round.
"My father wouldn’t have had it another way ."
He watched me load.
"I think so."
There was desire his eyes.
But desire only half.
I saw respect too.
That caused something to roll over low in my stomach.
By evening, we sat on the terrace over the grounds of the estate.
The air was chilly.
His coat heavy on my shoulders.
Neither of us spoke a word.
But I could feel him beside me.
All that was fraught with power.
All that threat sheathed in smooth restraint.
He did not touch me.
But his proximity touched every nerve I had.
For a second, his hand touched mine on the rock ledge.
I didn't move it.
Neither did he.
The lines of business and personal dissolved there, in the fading light.
I should have been wary.
This man could be my undoing.
But sitting beside him, the silence drawn out and heavy, I saw that I didn't mind.
I didn't hunger for safe.
I hungered for war.
And Rocco De Luca was war made flesh and steel.
"Stay for dinner," he said finally.
I looked at him.
"Didn't plan on going anywhere."
His lips curled, just a little.
But it was the closest thing to a smile I'd received from him.
And it was lethal.
Dinner was presented in the private dining area — not by a staff, but by Rocco himself.
He served the plates individually. Steak. Roasted vegetables. A bottle of rich red wine he opened with ease.
It surprised me.
He wasn't the kind of man who seemed like he knew how to make other people feel cared for.
But there he was, feeding me.
He filled the wine glasses, his gaze slipping over my face for the barest fraction of a second too long.
I looked back at him, all my nerves on high alert, all my muscles taut.
There was something brewing in the air between us, and we both knew it.
The conversation had been light initially.
Family.
Old rivals.
The ones we'd buried.
The ones we still hunted.
And with plates emptied and the second glass of wine filled, the edges smoothed over.
The silences became heavier.
"Your father," Rocco said, agitating the wine in his glass, "he raised a warrior."
I laid down my fork.
"Would you prefer I be fragile?"
His eyes flared.
"No. I hate fragile."
The air between us became thick.
Thick.
Tangible.
I pushed my plate aside, resting my elbows on the table, leaning forward just enough to taunt him.
"And you? Were you born cold or did the world harden you?"
His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up.
"A little of both."
The silence that ensued was electric.
I could hear the thud of my own heartbeat, steady but hard.
He rose.
Walked around the table.
Slow. Measured.
His shadow was over me as he stood behind my chair.
His fingertips touched my shoulder for a brief moment, not quite, but close enough to feel the heat.
I didn't move.
Didn't inhale.
"You're not what I expected," he whispered.
His voice made me shiver.
"Neither are you," I panted.
The space between us closed with every passing second.
His fingertips stroked the edge of my neck, light, flirtatious, but deliberate. His thumb scraped my jaw, tilting my face to his.
I could smell him.
Leather and spice and danger.
All the things I shouldn't want but did anyway.
His lips kissed mine once.
Soft. Almost a whisper.
It sent tremors across my skin.
He lingered there for a second, suspending, and I could feel the tension arcing off him like an electrical current.
I breathed shallowly, in jagged gasps, and moved forward.
His mouth on mine.
Heat flowed through my veins.
His lips were warm and firm and pressing.
The kiss intensified, gradually, as though he was savouring each second, waiting to discover how much he could push it.
His hand swept down my neck into my hair, sliding through the strands and tugging enough to make me gasp.
That sound, my breath, caught between a gasp and a moan, loosened the hold he was fighting to maintain on himself.
His tongue slid over mine, smooth and slow, pulling me into a rhythm that made my whole body hum.
There was no doubt left, only desire.
My hands flat on his chest, against the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
He tasted like wine and danger, a taste that made my head spin.
His other hand around my waist, pulling me up and into him so there was only heat between us.
The kiss grew hungry.
Barbaric.
Possessive.
He kissed me as though he'd been craving to do it for a lifetime.
As if he needed to discover what I tasted, what I felt, how I would respond to the raw strength of him.
And I met him.
Fierce.
Defiant.
Informing him that I wasn't his to conquer, I was his equal, his match, his flame.
I bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt low in his throat.
He responded by tugging on my hair a little harder still, his breathing harsh.
When he finally tore away from the kiss, his forehead was against mine.
His chest heaved as if he'd run a marathon.
His voice was rough, deep, still laced with fire.
"You're dangerous."
I gasped hard, fighting to steady my breathing.
"So are you."
There was silence.
Heavy.
Loaded.
Then I pulled away, needing air to breathe, to think.
"I should go," I said to him, though part of me didn't want to leave.
He didn't struggle.
Didn't beg.
Instead, his eyes eased a little.
“I’ll drive you.”
I hesitated.
“I can manage.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m driving you.”
His tone left no room for argument.
I exhaled slowly, grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair.
“Fine. But no more distractions.”
He smirked, his eyes still burning.
“No promises.”