Chapter 36 Fiorella
Nothing could have prepared me for this.
Not the years of training under my father’s watchful eye. Not the countless lessons in control, in power, in how to lead without letting emotions rule me. Not the blood I’d spilled, the lives I’d taken, the wars I’d won.
Nothing.
Because nothing in this world could have prepared me for the sight of my father’s lifeless body.
I couldn't move. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe.
The world around me was closing in, the walls pressing in on me, crushing me under the weight of grief so deep it dragged me under. The air was heavy with the scent of gunpowder, and the coppery tang of blood. His blood.
It wasn't supposed to go down like this.
He was supposed to get better . To wake up. To stand up again and fight with me. I was supposed to prove to him I could do this war, that I wasn't a daughter who needed to be protected, but a warrior in my own right.
Instead, he was dead.
And I didn't know what to do.
There was a buzzing in my ears that drowned out the gunfire outside, the screams of men, the chaos that still raged around us. My knees trembled, my hands shaking as I stared at him, at the man who'd raised me, shaped me, formed me into the person I was.
I'd fought so hard. Killed for him. Won for him.
And it hadn't been enough.
A strangled breath left me, and then I was wrapped in arms, grounding me, pulling me in.
Rocco.
I hadn't even realized I'd turned to him. Hadn't realized I'd reached out to him, that my body had collapsed into his like my strength had finally given out. My head was on his chest, my hands fisting into his shirt like he was the only thing keeping me upright.
I wasn't crying. Not at first.
But then, without warning, the first tear fell down my cheek. Then another. Then another.
A soft, torn sob was wrenched from my throat, muffled against him. I tried to close it off, tried to strangle it back, but the dam had broken, and there was no stopping it.
I had lost before. I had seen death before. I had inflicted it more times than I could count.
But this was different.
This was my father.
This was the man who had built an empire, who had brought me up to be unbeatable, who had given me everything.
And now he was dead.
The grief came over me in waves, crashing over me, choking me in its wake. I struggled for air, my chest tightened, and I clenched my fists, hating the weakness, hating the fragility I was feeling.
Rocco didn't say a word. He just held me. Steady, strong, solid. His hand traveled up and down my back in a slow, rhythmic gesture, his touch firm but gentle, his heat the only thing keeping me from shattering completely.
I hated this.
Hated feeling so vulnerable. So exposed. So lost.
But I didn't push him away.
Because at the moment, right now, Rocco was the only thing holding me together.
And I wasn't ready to let go.
I don't know how long I stay there, my cheek smashed against Rocco's chest, my hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt as if I'm scared he'll disappear too. My body shakes, but I grit my teeth, fighting to hold myself together.
Crying won't bring him back.
Nothing will.
The thought cuts through me, icy and merciless, and I gasp raggedly, my breath hitching in my throat. My father's body lies just feet from me, blood spreading on the ground, his chest motionless.
I have to look.
I have to face it.
But I don't.
Rocco's arm is still around me, tight and grounding, and I realize I'm clinging too hard. I let him go, my hands falling uselessly to my sides. He doesn't move away, doesn't say anything. He just stares at me, his expression unreadable, but I can feel it, the weight of his concern, the unspoken words between us like a challenge.
I don't know what to say.
The world around me is distant, muted, like I'm stuck in a haze that I can't wake up from. I can hear sounds outside, Leo bellowing orders, the distant rumble of engines, the unmistakable sounds of gunfire fading off into the distance. The battle is ending.
But the war is anything but.
And so is my grief.
I take a shaking breath and force myself to look at my father.
His face is immobile. Peaceful in a way that wrenches my gut, because I know it's not real. There is no peace here. No justice. Only blood and grief and a rage so deep I don't know if I'll ever claw my way out of it.
The man who did this is dead, three shots to the head from my own gun. But it is not enough. It will never be enough.
I wipe at my face, brushing off the evidence of my tears. They have no business here. Not now.
Not when there is so much yet to do.
I turn away from the body, from the grief attempting to pull me under, and face Rocco instead. His dark eyes gleam with something I don't recognize, something raw, something guarded, but he doesn't push me. He just waits.
I brace my shoulders, forcing myself to be strong, despite the fact that I'm still crumbling.
"I have to handle this," I say, my voice gruff but level.
Rocco doesn't argue. He nods once, slow and deliberate. "I know."
It's not just about my father's death. It's about everything. The Marchesi. Elio. The empire my father built, the one that now falls to me.
I can feel the weight of it bearing down on me, more than ever before. But I won't let it break me. I can't.
Rocco stares at me for a while, then reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine. It's barely a touch, barely there, but it centres me in a way I did not anticipate.
"You don't have to do this alone," he whispers.
I almost flinch. Almost draw back. But I don't.
Because for the first time in my life, I'm not certain that I can.
A heavy, thick silence stretches between us, filled with all that's unspoken in sorrow and tension regarding what's to come. My hands clench at my sides, my body still trembling, but I will not let it betray me. I will not break, at least, not here. Not now.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, fast and persistent. Then the door is flung open.
Leo's just standing there, his face deathly pale, his chiseled features contorted in a mask of horror as his eyes fall on my father's dead body. His breath hitches, only for a moment, but it's long enough. Long enough to assure me that this moment is destroying him as much as it's destroying me.
His lips open, but he says nothing.
I look at him, my voice empty, empty in a way that doesn't even sound like me.
“We have a funeral to plan.”
His throat bobs, and for a long moment, he just stares. Then, finally, he nods.
But the storm in his eyes tells me what he won’t say out loud, this isn’t over.
Not even close.