Chapter 24 Fiorella
The night air was cool as I stepped out of the car. The ride from the De Luca estate had done nothing to soothe the storm brewing in my heart.
I could still feel his lips on mine, slow, deliberate, taking.
And I hated how much I wanted more.
I pushed open the door and slipped into the quiet house. The guards nodded, but I did not linger.
I needed alone time.
But as soon as I reached the stairs, I heard him.
My father.
"Fiorella."
I stopped short.
His tone was firm. Too firm.
I slowly turned to confront him where he leaned in the expansive hall, arms clasped behind his back, picture of self-control. But his eyes, they seared.
"Come."
He pointed towards his office.
I followed him silently, closing the door.
The silence between us was thick as he poured himself a drink.
He did not give me one.
"You were with them tonight."
Not a question.
Again.
I met his eye.
"Yes."
He drank his drink slowly.
"The De Lucas are dangerous."
"So are we."
He laughed, but it was not a laugh of amusement.
"You know what I mean."
I did.
But I did not speak.
He turned to stand before the window, staring out into the darkness.
"I spent my entire life building this empire," he said softly.
"Blood. Strategy. Sacrifice."
He looked back at me.
"You are my largest investment, Fiorella."
I bristled.
"I'm not a business transaction."
"You're worth more than that," he told me.
"You're my legacy. My future."
His voice turned icy.
"And I won't let you destroy yourself over a man like Rocco De Luca."
I breathed in deeply.
"He will destroy you," my father continued.
"And when he's done… there will be nothing left but ashes."
"I'm not weak," I spat.
"I don't fall for men like him."
My father raised an eyebrow.
"You already have."
His words sliced through me like a punch in the chest.
"I see it in your eyes," he said softly.
"The way you talk about him. The way you come home with fire burning beneath your skin."
I clenched my fists.
"I can handle him."
He set the glass down.
"Don't try to handle him."
His eyes became dark.
"Stay away from him."
I swallowed hard.
And lied.
"I will."
My father nodded, apparently satisfied.
But as soon as I left that room, I knew I was not going to do it.
I climbed the stairs, each step burdened with unwritten lies.
When I finally got to my room, I leaned against the door and breathed unsteadily.
Stay away from him.
As if it were possible.
Rocco wasn't just danger.
He was gravity.
Pulling me in despite how much I struggled.
I moved to the mirror, staring at myself.
The calm, cool woman everyone saw.
But beneath, fire.
Desire.
Instinct I could not suppress.
I recalled how he'd fought side by side with me at the warehouse.
How he'd stepped in, not to take over, but to protect me without hesitation.
And the kiss…
Slow and rough both, as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to enjoy or consume.
I shoved my thoughts away from him, but God, I did not want to.
I sat on the bed's edge, heart pounding.
Why did I desire him?
Why did the danger make me crave him more?
Because he was the one who could handle me.
Darkness for darkness.
Power for power.
He did not attempt to break me.
He fought me blow for blow, and I…
I wanted more.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
I picked it up, gasping when I saw his name.
Rocco.
I did not answer.
I could not.
Not tonight. .
I hung up the phone, pacing the room, torn between what I should do and what I wanted.
My father was right.
This was dangerous.
But I'd never been one to turn from danger.
I pushed open the curtains and looked out into the night.
The stars shone above, cold, distant, unattainable.
I thought about what it would be like to fall.
To burn.
And I knew with a shiver:
I was already halfway down.
The morning started too quiet.
A smothering kind of silence that sent shivers over my skin.
My father had risen early to take care of a business with some of his old buddies or so he said.
But by the time he was absent during breakfast I had a feeling something wasn’t right.
There was this undertow of tension, the kind that curled around your neck and told you that something was going to snap.
I kept myself occupied reading shipping documents in my study, but my eyes were always scanning the clock.
He should have returned by now.
I called.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
My heart tightened in my chest.
I told myself not to panic.
He was cautious. Prepared.
He had guards.
But then the call came.
One of our men, his voice frantic and gasping:
"Signor D'Angelo...he's been shot. It was an ambush. The Marchesi."
My blood ran cold.
"We're taking him home now."
I didn't remember hanging up the phone.
All I remembered was the crash of the front door slamming shut as I ran outside, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
The convoy came a few seconds later.
The car door opened.
Blood. There was too much blood.
My father, pale-faced, unconscious, half-dragged by two men as they ran toward the house.
"No, no, no—"
I grabbed one of the guards.
"What happened?"
"Marchesi men. they started shooting. We defended ourselves, but he took two bullets in the chest."
I stumbled backward a step, the room revolving.
"Get him in! " I grated, swallowing my cough.
"Call the doctor. Immediately!"
We carried him to his private medical room, the one used for emergencies we hoped never would happen.
The house doctor burst in within minutes, his expression set as he took up the task.
I stood in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly over my chest, every muscle taut.
His breathing was shallow.
His skin slick.
I couldn't lose him.
Not him.
The voice of the doctor was low and angry as he bellowed at his assistants.
I couldn't hear.
I couldn't breathe.
The minutes were crawling by like hours.
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into the palms of my hands.
After hours and hours
Finally, the doctor came out.
"He's stable… for now."
I gasped unsteadily.
But then he spoke, "It was close. He needs rest. And protection."
I nodded.
The Marchesi.
This was war now.
They didn't attack our men alone, they came for my father.
I stood by my father's bed, watching his chest rise and fall weakly.
My hard, invincible father brought low by this.
The rage burned out the fear, slow and steady.
I knew what had to be done next.
I left the room and made my way to the hallway where my men were standing.
"Double the guards," I ordered, my voice cold.
"Seal all exits. Nobody comes in or out without permission."
"Yes, boss."
I paced, my pulse racing.
The Marchesi had attacked.
And they'd injured my father, but they missed their intended target.
Me.
The phone in my pocket buzzed again.
Rocco.
I didn't bother with it.
This wasn't his war.
This was mine.
I whirled on my heel and headed for the armoury.
My father's blood was now on my hands.
They would pay.
All of them.
All of them, and then some.
I had made it halfway down the hall when one of my guards rushed toward me, his face pale.
"Boss… you gotta come look at this."
He handed me a phone, a live feed from the security cameras at the front gate.
There, on the screens, dozens of Marchesi cars descending upon my estate.
A full-on assault.
They weren't done yet.
They were coming for me.
And I wasn't going to die quietly.
I gritted my jaw, pushing the phone back into his hands.
"Lock it down," I spat.
"And get me my gun."