Chapter 26 Fiorella
I leaned against the corridor outside my dad's room, arms folded tightly over my chest. The night had clammily gone still, the kind of stillness that pressed down on your bones. The medic had stabilised him again, but comfort had long since departed the term. Stable was like being on the edge of a blade.
Rocco stood beside me, his presence bold but reassuring. His cologne lingered in the air, smoke and leather and something black and expensive that shouldn't have reassured me, but did.
"You shouldn't be alone tonight."
His was a deep, low. I looked up at him. His face was blank, but his eyes told me he wasn't making a suggestion, he was telling me how it was going to happen.
And for once, I didn't argue.
"Okay," I croaked, my throat sore.
He nodded once, like it had already been decided before I'd even opened my mouth.
We returned to the sitting room. My feet seemed too light, too detached, as though I was watching someone else stroll. All inside me was twisted in knots, anger, fear, exhaustion. But what I hated most was the vulnerability.
He'd seen it.
He'd seen me break.
I’d spent years building armour so thick no one could get close, and tonight, with blood on my hands and tears in my eyes, he’d witnessed me vulnerable.
I hated it.
I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sat down on the couch, curling one leg beneath me, cradling the glass like it could hold me together.
Rocco leaned over from me, elbows on knees, staring at me in that serious, brooding way of his.
"How long are you going to keep wearing that expression?" he asked after a bit.
I glared at him. "What expression?"
"The expression that you're going to burn the world to ashes."
I smirked, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.
"Maybe I am."
He settled back, spreading his arms along the back of the sofa, exuding peaceful mastery, the opposite of my chaos.
"I'd light the match for you."
I looked at him. He wasn't being sarcastic. He really did mean it.
That realization struck solid in my chest, cinching something I wasn't ready to label.
"I just want it to end," I breathed before I could stop myself.
All the fighting, the constant threats, the attacks.
I wanted to be able to breathe without having to look over my shoulder all the time.
Rocco slowly nodded.
"It will,"
I grunted a bitter laugh.
"You don't know that,"
"I do,"
His tone was hard, uncompromising. "We'll make it end."
The way he spoke made my gut twist.
I didn't like needing someone.
But tonight, with the burden so heavy upon me, I didn't dislike him being there.
My eyes lit up into his, and I saw it, the unspoken promise there.
He'd stay with me beside him, no matter the world burning.
I took a thick swig of whiskey, the burn grounding me.
My mind continued to loop back to my dad.
In that bed, weak and frail, it was wrong.
He was the strongest man I'd ever known, and now. he was fragile.
I pushed the glass against my lips again, swallowing the ache in my throat.
And then my mind flew back, vicious and sharp, to Rocco.
The way he'd kissed me.
Slowly. Gently.
Not taking, but giving.
And the way I'd melted into him, for one moment only, before shoving him away, not because I didn't want it, but because I did.
Too much.
I gazed at him again.
He was still looking at me with that unfathomable glare, but I caught the glint of heat in his eyes.
I had no idea what he was thinking.
If he thought I was a challenge.
If he thought he could beat me.
If he knew I'd burn everything down first before I'd let anyone dictate to me.
But beneath all that rage, another thought lingered.
What would it be like to give in?
Just once.
To stop fighting.
So that he could take over, just long enough for me to get my breath back.
I shivered and set the glass aside.
"Thanks for sticking around," I said quietly, surprising myself.
His eyebrow twitched a bit, but he didn't speak.
I stood up and headed toward the window, staring out into the black courtyard.
The night was heavy with tension, but for the first time, it seemed like I didn't have to carry it all alone.
And that scared me.
Because if I opened myself up to him, if I let him in, I didn't know if I could close myself up again.
The thought irritated me.
I turned to him.
"You don't need to sit there like a statue. If you're going to stay, at least pour yourself something."
He stood up slowly and wandered over to the bar with that effortless air of his.
"Thought you wouldn't be the type to want to be with someone."
"I'm not," I admitted.
"But tonight is different."
He placed another glass before me, his hand brushing against mine, brief, just for a second, and yet fire flashed up my arm.
We sat in silence for a moment or two, the air between us thickening, becoming heavier.
I felt his gaze upon me, steady, unflinching.
I hoped he was thinking about the kiss, too.
I bitten my lip and turned away my head, all of a sudden feeling naked and raw and exposed all over again.
"I don’t like that you saw me like that.”
"How?"
He asked, his voice soft.
"Broken."
He raked his hand through his hair.
"You were not broken, Fiorella. You were just human."
I exhaled a quaky breath.
"I don't enjoy being human."
His mouth crinkled with a slight knowing smile.
"I know."
There we sat, two humans who shouldn't be depending on one another but did.
And for once, I let it be so.
I only hoped I wouldn't regret it.
I'd been raised around men who thought that fear was strength, but I'd learned as a child that fear could be sharpened to be a knife.
Tonight, however, in spite of all my toughened bravery, I was… tired. Weary.
I didn't realize I'd let out a breath until Rocco shifted next to me on the couch. His hand brushed against mine, and I stiffened for a moment, habit. But I didn't push him away.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
Instead, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, drawing me in until my head rested against the hard warmth of his chest.
I froze.
I didn't do this.
I didn't lean.
I didn't need shoulders to cry on.
But he didn't push. His other hand slid up, smoothing over my hair, fingertips stroking through the strands with surprising gentleness.
"Your dad's going to be okay," he whispered, voice rough, low, steady as the beat of a drum.
"He's tough. He's built for this kind of thing. And you're tough too."
The force of those words filled my chest.
I resent the way so much of it felt, warmth of him, solidity of him, feeling of safety that I knew he could give and was not willing to admit I craved.
I tried to control my breathing, but something creaked open inside of me.
"Everything feels like it's falling," I whispered , so softly I wasn't even sure I'd spoken aloud.
Rocco's hand continued to stroke through my hair. His palm cupped the back of my head gently, inviting me to lean more heavily against him.
"It's not falling," he whispered. "It's just shifting. And you…you adapt. You always do."
I closed my eyes, my brow resting lightly upon his shoulder. His smell enfolded me, clean and manly, and deadly.
"I don't want you seeing me like this," I said softly.
He chuckled low in his chest, a vibration on my cheek I could feel.
"I like seeing you like this."
I stiffened and started to retreat, but the hand at my head coaxed me to stay.
“Not weak,”he said, his tone softer now.
"Real."
My throat tightened.
"I don't know how to be real without breaking something."
"You won't break," he told me, a statement of fact. "You bend. You sharpen. You fight."
We stood there, the space between us heavy and full. His hand still rested touching through my hair slowly, and I bent into it against my will.
For a few minutes, I allowed it.
Allowed the comfort, the softness, the hush between two individuals who ought not have been able to put faith in the other, yet did.
"You don't need to bear it all by yourself," he'd said after an instant.
I scrunched up my eyes.
"I do."
"No," he'd said quietly but emphatically.
"You don't."
I swallowed roughly. His hand swept out from my hair to cup my face, his fingers angling me slightly upward. His thumb touched across the contours of my cheekbone, delicate and constant.
"You have me."
The way he said it, not a question, not a suggestion, but as a simple fact made my heart turn.
"I don't know if I can let anyone have me," I whispered.
"You already do," he murmured.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he just leaned in and touched foreheads.
We sat like that for a long time, his breath mingling with mine, the quiet weight of the world between us, but for once, not crushing.
“You’re not alone,” he whispered.
I let out a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.
There was heat there, restrained, held back, but also something deeper. Something dangerous.
He pressed his lips to my forehead, a kiss so soft it made my stomach tighten.
“You’ll get through this, Fiorella,” he whispered against my skin.
“I swear it.”
I let out the smallest sound, part laugh, part sob.
“You sound so sure.”
“I am,” he said simply.
I leaned into him again, resting my head on his shoulder. His hand rubbed slow circles on my back, patient, steady, unwavering.
And for the first time in more than I can remember, I let myself be held.
Just this once.
Just today.
Because tomorrow, I'd sharpen my claws.
But tonight, I let myself rest in a man I should have feared.
Instead…I didn't want to let him go.