Chapter 37 Rocco
The air was heavy with blood and smoke at night. The remnants of the battle clings to the estate like a shadow, bodies littering the grounds everywhere, and yet, in that manor, Fiorella stands silently, staring down at the man who was a father to her, the man who is now nothing but a dead body.
I should stay. I should talk. But what in the devil do you tell someone who has nothing left?
Her shoulders are stiff, her fists clenched at her hips. She hasn't stirred, hasn't spoken. I can barely determine if she's breathing.
"Fiorella," I whisper.
Silence.
She's shell-shocked. I know that. But she's also Fiorella D'Angelo. And Fiorella doesn't break.
Or at least, not with an audience.
I breathe in deep, raking a hand down the line of my face. "I'll leave you alone," I tell her. "But I'm coming back."
She says nothing.
I force myself to turn, to exit that house, my stomach knotting in a way that doesn't feel quite right. I dislike leaving her this way, but pressuring her will only make her fold in tighter.
The second I step out, I see them, Rafael, Riccardo, and the rest of our men standing near the cars. Some are still wiping the blood from their weapons, tension thick in the air.
Riccardo speaks up first when he sees my face. "That bad?"
I exhale sharply. "Her father is dead."
Nothing.
Rafael nods once, absorbing it. Riccardo clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
“Damn,” Riccardo mutters. “I thought your flower was untouchable.”
I shoot him a warning look, but he only raises his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Rocco. I’m not saying she’s weak. I’m saying she’s dangerous now.”
He’s right.
Fiorella grieving is one thing. Fiorella seeking vengeance? That’s something else entirely.
Rafael steps forward, his voice calm, steady. “How is she?”
I hesitate before answering. “Holding it together. For now.”
Rafael nods curtly, as if that was what he was searching for.
Riccardo softly whistles. "And you?"
I remain silent.
Because I don't have an answer.
I am concerned only with the war that is soon to be waged. The Marchesi are weaker today, but Elio is not a man who is going down without a fight. He'll take revenge in blood.
But my mind's not busy with Elio right now. But her.
Rafael watches me, a slow smile crossing his face. "You're going back to her, aren't you?"
I don't answer.
Riccardo runs his fingers through his hair. "Of course you are." Then gravely, "Be careful, Rocco. She just lost the most important person in her world. People get crazy when they're in grieving mode."
"I know.".
Rafael glances at the house, then back at me. "She's not going to stop now."
"No," I confirm. "She won't."
And neither will I.
Rocco
The drive home is quiet.
Not the sort of silence one finds oneself in, the sort heavy with tension and unspoken words that no one would care to mention. Riccardo sitting next to me, playing with his phone as if unmoved, but I know he is pondering. Rafael sat behind me, arms folded across his chest, already calculating what we are to do next.
I was gripping the wheel too hard. My knuckles were white against the leather.
Fiorella's face won't leave my mind.
Her whimper of pain.
She just stood there.
I knew she was tough. I knew she was ruthless. But I've never seen her so hurt.
I should have stayed.
"Her father's men will keep her safe tonight," Rafael says, like he can read my mind.
I exhale through my nostrils. "That's not the problem."
Riccardo lets out a low chuckle. "Yeah? So what is the problem?"
I don't say anything.
Because I don't fucking know.
As soon as we drive into the estate, I pull over and step out without saying a word. I can hear Riccardo muttering something behind me, but I don't take the time to listen. My body aches, my mind is worse. The blood on my clothes is sticky against my skin, dried and clinging to me like a second layer of shame.
There, the house is quiet. I head straight for my room and close the door behind me.
I take off my jacket first, then shirt, my hands moving automatically as I unbuckle my belt and slide out of my pants. As soon as I turn the shower on, steam begins to rise, misting the room.
I get in and stand under the burning water.
Blood runs off in ribbons, spiraling down the drain.
My hands lie against the tiles, my head slumped forward.
I should have been there.
I should have known Elio would strike back this quickly.
Fiorella shouldn't have had to battle that fight alone.
I squeeze my eyes closed, water streaming down my face, burning against a new cut just above my temple. The vision of her there in that room, glancing over at the dead body of her father, gnaws in my mind.
I know what it feels like losing someone.
Seeing the last person you still have die while the rest of the world continues to turn.
I wouldn’t not let her suffer this alone.
She won't ask for help—Fiorella D'Angelo doesn't demand anything. But she may not realize that she needs it.
I wash, already thinking what I can do to make everything easier for her.
I will take care of the security.
I will make sure that no Marchesi member gets close enough to even breathe in her direction.
I’ll be there, whether she wants me to be or not.
I shut off the water and step out, grabbing a towel and running it over my face. My reflection in the mirror is sharp, eyes darker than usual.
This isn’t just about revenge anymore.
This is about her.
And I’ll make damn sure she knows she’s not alone.
I dry off and wrap my towel around my waist, coming into my bedroom. The air feels chilly against my damp skin, but my mind is still ablaze.
I put on sweatpants and sit on the edge of my bed, elbows bent at knees, hands locked together.
The next morning I reach out for my phone on the nightstand.
I pick it up.
I don't think. I just call.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
No answer.
I grit my jaw. I shouldn't expect her to answer. She's got more going on than anyone should have to. But still, I have to hear her voice. I have to know she's good.
I text instead.
Me: You're not alone in this. You know that, right?
The message gets through. No reply.
I toss the phone onto the bed and run my hand through my hair. I can return. I can show up at her door, make sure she's eating, make sure she's sleeping. But Fiorella isn't the type of woman to appreciate that.
She'll push me away before she'll let me in.
A thunderous knock on my door shakes me out of my trance.
"Come in," I snarl, my voice rough.
Rafael steps inside, his usually stoic face expressionless. "We need to talk."
I already know what he's going to say.
"Elio's going to retaliate," I mutter. "He won't let this go."
"He won't," Rafael agrees. "But that's not why I'm here."
I raise an eyebrow. "Then what?"
Rafael hesitates, and that's what tightens my chest. Rafael never hesitates.
"What?" I demand.
His gaze meets mine.
"She’s not responding to anyone."
The words fall like a stone in my belly.
"What do you mean ?" I ask, my voice lower, rougher.
"I mean Leo called. Her father's men have called. Nobody's heard from her since we left yesterday."
I'm already running. I grasp a shirt, pull it on, slip my feet into my shoes. My heart pounds, my body pulsating with something I don't recognize.
"Rocco," Rafael calls out, but I don't stop.
I push past him, past Riccardo, who's braced against the corridor with a frown.
"Where are you off to?" Riccardo barks, but he knows already.
"Fiorella," I tell him, my voice like steel.
I don't know what I'll find when I get there.
But I know one thing.
I'm not going to let her go through this by herself.