Chapter 41 Rocco
By the time I pulled into the driveway of the De Luca estate, the sun was fully up. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that only the early morning, when the rest of the world was just beginning to wake up, could bring. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, scrubbing my hand over my face. It was a long night. A long couple of nights.
Walking in, I barely made it through the door before Riccardo yelled out.
"Well, well. Look who finally came home."
I ignored him, shutting the door behind me and walking past him.
"Spent the night in comforting your flower I guess?" he asked, a smile in his voice. "Had to be some sad night, poor girl. Bet she was crying all the tears out and needed lots of consolation."
I stared at him, pissed. "Shut up, Riccardo." One of these days I’d put a gun to his leg to shut him up, he’s so fucking annoying.
He grinned, stretching his arms above his head as he slumped against the couch. "Not denying it though."
I didn't feel like hearing his jests. I was exhausted, my mind still full of the image of Fiorella there standing outside the cabin, so Goddamn tired, so hollow. I had to wrestle every fiber of me from reaching out to grab her and hold her to me and telling her she did not have to endure this alone.
Riccardo finally gave up when I failed to indulge in his teasing, mumbling something beneath his breath as he pulled out his phone. I left him there and moved towards the dining room, wafting in the smell of freshly made espresso and eggs.
Rafael sat at the long wooden table, a newspaper in front of him and a mug in the other hand. Across from him, Rosalia was cutting up some fruit with care, the very picture of morning ease.
What caught my attention, though, was the way she leaned forward across the table, forkful of what she was having held up to Rafael's mouth.
"Try this," she said, her voice light. "It's good."
Rafael barely glanced up from his paper. "I'm eating."
Rosalia pouted. "And I'm feeding you. Open up."
He sighed but didn't protest, opening his lips wide enough for her to insert the bite. She leaned back, holding her breath hopefully.
"Well?"
Rafael chewed, still reading. "It's fine."
Rosalia rolled her eyes. "So ungrateful."
I laughed, leaning against the doorway. "I see she's got you properly trained now."
Rafael did not even look up. "Mind your own business."
Rosalia did smile, though. "He's getting there."
Seeing them like this, so normal, so natural, was such a contrast to the weight in my chest. Fiorella no longer had this. She no longer had anyone looking out for her, no father sitting at a table, no quiet moments of familiarity to fall back on.
And for some reason, that made my stomach twist into knots.
I exhaled, running a hand over my jaw.
"You look like hell," Rafael said, finally looking up from his newspaper.
I didn't argue. "I’m worried about Fiorella."
"She's alone now," I said.
Rafael drank his coffee slowly before setting the cup down. "Not entirely."
I caught his gaze, understanding exactly what he was insinuating.
No, she wasn't entirely on her own.
But it would take a terrible lot to persuade her otherwise.
——————
The funeral ceremony was held at one of the D'Angelo estates, a stunning, historic mansion with lavish gardens and brooding stone archways. The moment we got there, the mood was filled with grief, the muted whispers of mourners blending with the somber atmosphere.
Men in suits, women in elegant black dresses, big shots from other clans, everyone had come to pay their respects. Even foes, those who were once enemies, had attended. Because in this world, death deserved respect.
I pushed through the crowd, my gaze watchful, taking in every new face. Rafael had posted men all around the grounds, but it couldn't hurt to be cautious.
Then I saw her.
Fiorella was at the front, near the casket.
She was dressed in a black, tight dress, hair slicked back into a sharp bun, not a hair out of place. But it was her face that hit me the hardest.
Untouchable. Stoic. A queen standing among the ruins of her ravaged kingdom.
But her eyes, her eyes told a different story.
The ceremony continued uneventfully, the priest's words a distant murmur in the air as I kept my attention on her. I watched her greet guests, nodding with acceptance of sympathy, offering empty words in response. But emotions wasn't there, only mechanical gestures, as if she was going through the motions on autopilot.
She hadn't even looked my way.
Once.
The service finally came to an end, the last words spoken, the final respects paid. People began to disperse, hushed voices a murmur as they moved towards the cars.
I stepped back, watching, waiting.
And then it happened.
She turned.
Our eyes met across the room, and I saw it first.
Not only the sadness. Not only the exhaustion.
But the fire. The bubbling anger beneath it all.
Fiorella wasn't mourning alone she was strategising for war.
The mourners were dispersing now, their murmurs and whispers as subdued as if they didn't wish to disturb the somber atmosphere still lingering over the grounds. But Fiorella did not stir, her gaze fixed on mine.
I walked the space between us carefully, looking at her. Up close, she was a portrait of barely restrained devastation, tall, serene, but only hanging on by her fingernails.
"Fiorella," I said, quietly.
She blinked, as if suddenly realising that I was in front of her. "You came."
"You didn't think I'd come?"
Her mouth set in a line. "A lot of people show up to funerals. Doesn't mean they necessarily care."
I scowled. "You know I’m not a lot of people."
She breathed, turning away, her hands clasped in front of her as if she was trying not to fall apart. "I don't know anything anymore."
There was a silence between us. I could see it in the way she was standing, in the rigid way she was holding herself, the weight of it all was shattering her, and she was too damn proud to crack.
"I should have done more," she breathed, hardly above a whisper.
"You did everything you could," I told her. "Your father wouldn't…"
"Don't." She cut in sharp, eyes flaring. "Don't tell me what my father would or wouldn't do."
I watched her, noting the way her fingers shook slightly before she balled them into fists. She was angry. At the world. At herself. At the bastards who'd done what they'd done to her.
And I knew that kind of anger.
I stepped forward, my tone dropping. "Then what do you want me to say?"
I could see the lump in her throat , as if she were struggling to swallow up emotions she steadfastly refused to show. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know what in the world I'm supposed to do next."
I did something I wasn't certain she would like, I moved, my fingertips brushing against hers on her wrist. A gauge. She did not recoil.
"You do what you've always done," I told her. "You fight."
She took a slow breath, something flickering behind her eyes. "Fighting is easy." Her voice was husky, raw. "But standing here… pretending I don't feel like I lost a part of myself… that's the fight."
I clenched my hand, just a bit. "You're not alone, Fiorella."
She opened her lips, maybe to argue, maybe to tell me she didn't need anyone…
But she never got the opportunity.
A sharp voice cut through the air.
"Fiorella."
We both turned around, and there he was, her uncle.
Tall, dressed in a high-quality black suit, his face a mask.
But the look in his eyes? That was a warning.
And like that, the tension between us shattered.