Chapter 25 Rocco
The night was quiet. Too quiet.
I sat in Rafael's office, sipping whiskey, the embers smouldering low in the corner.
We had concluded another meeting, another cycle of logistics for arm deliveries and allocation of territory.
But my mind kept drifting back.
To her.
Fiorella.
Her fire, her defiance, the way she kissed like she wished to set fire to a war.
And maybe, just maybe, I desired to lose that battle.
My phone vibrated on the extremely polished oak desk.
I glanced down, praying for a note from one of our guards.
It wasn't there.
It was Leo, a D'Angelo guard.
My gut dropped.
"Rocco, you have to come. Now."
His voice was rough, frantic.
"The Marchesi… they attacked the estate. Fiorella's father is down. And now, they're surrounding the property. It's bad."
I was on my feet before he even finished talking, the chair scraping harshly against the marble floor.
"Stay alive," I said with grit. "We're coming."
Riccardo and Rafael sprang into instant alert.
My face must have spoken it.
"The Marchesi?" Rafael was already up, already moving.
"I nodded curtly.
"They're going after the D'Angelos."
Rafael muttered a curse.
Riccardo clenched his jaw.
"This is going to get bloody."
I was already fastening my jacket and clicking on my gun.
"Let's go."
The ride was whirlwind quick and frenzied, the engine roaring under our wheels as we tore down through the city.
I could sense the tension rising, the crackle of impending violence thick in the air.
When we approached the estate, there was already smoke rising.
There was gunfire in the distance, crackling through the air.
My heart battered against my ribcage.
I didn't know whether it was adrenaline or fear — fear I wasn't accustomed to feeling.
Not for me.
But for her.
We stopped just short of the mayhem.
Flames were licking at the fringes of the front gate, bullets having riddled it.
Bodies littered on the ground, Marchesi soldiers and D'Angelo goons together.
I spotted Leo, his forehead bleeding, shooting from the cover of flipped SUV.
"Where is she?!" I screamed.
"Inside!" he shouted over the din.
"She's defending herself!"
Of course, she was.
Fiorella wasn't that kind of woman to stay locked indoors.
I nodded to my brothers.
"Cover me."
I rushed through the open gate, bullets whizzing by, taking cover behind debris, destroyed cars.
Smoke filled my lungs, the acrid sting scorching the rage already bubbling up in me.
I saw her at the front door, standing on the porch steps, rifle grasped in her hands, hair loose, eyes raging.
Like a queen who would not surrender her throne.
She turned as she saw me.
For a single moment of second, hope flashed in her eyes, then was gone.
Replaced with anger.
"Why are you here?" she screamed over the gunfire.
"Saving your obstinate backside," I growled, stepping in beside her and firing the approaching soldiers.
"I don't need saving," she snapped.
I almost laughed.
Of course, she didn't.
But I wasn't about to leave her here alone.
We fought our way out together, taking them down one at a time, moving as a unit.
She covered my rear, I cleared her path.
It was brutal, swift, and unforgiving.
Before the final Marchesi soldier was killed, the estate had been a battlefield of smoke and blood and charred earth.
Fiorella's rifle descended slowly, her chest rising and falling.
Blood on her cheek, not hers.
We stood facing one another, in the ruins.
"You okay?" I asked, voice low and rough.
She nodded once.
"I will be."
But then she set her jaw.
"I need to find my father."
I didn't stop her.
She turned and ran indoors.
I stayed there for a moment, still pounding heart, as I watched her disappear through the shattered door.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Rafael.
I answered on the first ring.
"You need some backup?" he asked.
I looked around at the destruction.
At the bullet-scarred mansion.
At the still-smouldering automobiles.
"No," I said softly.
"It's over for now."
But something in my gut was telling me this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
I hung up and headed towards the house.
And just as I was entering, I heard a scream.
Fiorella's scream.
I ran.
The moment I heard her scream, I didn't think — I acted.
My boots pounded over marble floors, through broken vases and bullet holes in the walls, the stench of gunpowder and smoke still in the air.
Half of the door to the study swung off its hinges.
I pushed it through.
Fiorella knelt on her knees next to her father's desk.
Her hair, normally wild and impeccable, had spilled around her face in uncontrollable disarray.
Her hands, those tight hands which clutched rifles without hesitation, were shaking as she pressed them down on her father's chest, vainly attempting to stem the flow of blood.
He was pale.
Far too pale.
His breathing came in gasping fits, each of which sounded as though it would be his last.
For the first time since I'd known her, she seemed small.
Vulnerable.
Not the hard, untouchable mafia princess, but a mere daughter, afraid of losing her father.
"Papa… don't leave me," she whispered, her voice shattering.
"I'm right here. You're not going anywhere. You hear me?"
I stood rooted to the spot for a moment.
I'd never seen Fiorella stumble.
Never seen her eyes welling up with tears fuelled by rage.
This was different.
Raw.
Real.
"Fiorella."
My voice was low, guarded.
She didn't look up.
She pressed harder on his wound, blood seeping through her fingers, leaving her skin splattered with deep crimson.
"He was stable," she panted out.
"He was stable when we were ambushed. He shouldn't be bleeding like this."
I knelt down next to her, feeling helpless in a way I hated.
"Let me take a look."
"No!"
Her voice cracked like a whip.
"I won't lose him, Rocco."
I put a hand on her shoulder.
She flinched but didn't move away.
"Is that it," I said softly.
"Let me help."
Her breath hitched, and slowly, reluctantly, she rolled back far enough so I could remove the cloth soaked in blood.
The cut was ugly.
Deep.
Stitches must've been torn loose in the combat.
I scanned around.
"Where is your medic?"
She shook her head helplessly.
"Dead. Caught in the crossfire."
Shit.
I called Rafael, grabbing for my phone.
"We need a medic to the D'Angelo estate. Now."
No excuse. No questioning.
Just an order.
He knew immediately.
I hung up and looked at Fiorella.
She sat back on her heels, arms streaked red, eyes open in horror and anger mingling.
And I saw her — truly saw her.
She wasn't just a leader.
Not just a warrior.
She was a woman who carried her family's weight on her shoulders, who would bleed and break before she'd let anyone else fall.
"Fiorella."
She finally looked at me.
Her defences collapsed wide apart, and in her eyes, I saw something I never expected — a silent, desperate cry for strength.
For a moment, she needed someone else to carry the load.
I took her bloodied hands in mine.
"You're not alone in this," I told her softly.
"I've got you."
Her lip trembled, for a moment, before she took a deep breath and composed herself.
Walls going back up.
But not so high.
Not with me.
We sat there in silence until Rafael's men came rushing in with a medic, who set to work immediately.
Fiorella did not move.
She stayed beside her father, her hand wrapped around his until the medic nodded and said, "He's stable, for now."
Not until then did she let out a shaking breath.
The room cleared slowly.
Only the two of us were left behind.
She leaned against the desk, her body shuddering.
I sat beside her on the ground.
Neither of us spoke.
There were no words to bridge what had happened.
Minutes ticked by like hours.
She whispered finally, "I hate feeling helpless."
I gazed at her.
"You're not helpless."
She spat out a bitter laugh.
"You saw me."
She rubbed her face, smearing streaks of blood across her cheek.
"I cracked."
I shook my head.
"No. You were human."
She glared at me, really looked at me, her eyes tired and puffy.
"And that scares me more than anything."
I didn't say anything.
Instead, I went and tidied a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Her breath hitched.
I could sense her heart racing against my fingers.
The air between us became thicker, thicker than ever before.
"Rocco," she breathed, her voice soft, unsure.
I didn't think.
Didn't plan.
I moved in.
Close enough to feel the tremble of her breath.
Close enough to taste the salt of her tears.
I kissed her.
Not hard.
Not demanding.
Soft.
Slow.
A promise.
Her lips opened under mine, hesitated but warm.
She relaxed into me for a breathless instant, and then, quite abruptly, she pushed me away softly.
“I can’t fall Rocco,” I had a feeling she wasn’t just talking about her family’s crumbling state but about us and all that is happening between us.