Chapter 55 Rocco
The first thing I saw was the smoke.
Black, thick, curling up into the air like a shroud over a funeral. My fingers closed over the wheel, my jaw locking as I pumped the accelerator harder.
The fire had spread fast, too fast. This was no accident. It was a bloody message.
She flung open the door, her feet on sidewalk, her body a blur of motion as she headed directly into the fire.
"Fiorella!" I yelled, but she wasn't listening.
Damn it, I pulled up and got out. Heat was like a wall around me, thick and smothering, but it was nothing compared to the rage burning through my blood.
Vittorio.
It had to be him. That son of a bitch had finally acted.
Fiorella was already screaming orders, her voice hoarse but firm. "Check the perimeter! See if anyone's still inside!"
The flames roared, engulfing the front door, leaving the elegant doors nothing but scorched debris. I watched her take it all in, the devastation, the loss, and then I saw it. The transformation.
Her grief gave way to fury.
I knew that look.
She wasn't thinking. She was going to do something foolish.
I stepped in front of her, grabbing her arm as she turned toward the fire. "Fiorella—"
"Let me go, Rocco."
She pulled with all her might, but I held fast. "You can't go in there."
"I have to—"
"You can't." My voice was unyielding. "It's not safe."
Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, her nails digging into her palms. I knew how much this meant to her. This house. This war.
But she wasn't going to win it by charging into a fire. Hell, she was shot, she needed to have that attended to.
I saw the understanding come. Not surrender, not acceptance, but hard, cold anger. She turned back to me, her voice steady in the face of it all. "Then we end this. We end him."
I encountered her gaze, burning with the same fire within me.
I nodded once.
The wail of sirens pierced the thick air, jarring contrast to the crackling flames engulfing the estate. Red and white flashing lights bounced off soot-stained walls as the fire trucks skidded to a stop, the firefighters already leaping out, moving with the smooth efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
I barely registered them. My focus was on Fiorella.
She stood stiffly beside me, smoke clinging to her clothes, eyes locked on what was left of her home. Her hands were curled into fists at her sides, knuckles pale from the force of her grip.
I stood and watched as the firefighters did not hesitate, pulling hoses across the gravel driveway, the initial forceful blast of water meeting the flames with a hiss. The fire lashed back, growing defiantly loud before the assault could start weakening it under the constant spray.
The night was filled with chaos —yelled orders, the occasional sound of wood crashing within the building. I watched as Fiorella's soldiers moved along the perimeter, locking away what was remaining, watching for threats.
“Boss, the fire didn't spread past the main wing," one of her men, John, shouted as he came running over. Soot on his face, sweat on his shirt. "We managed to salvage the back offices before the fire got there."
Fiorella didn't answer at first.
Then she exhaled, long and slow, shoulders rising before falling again. "Good," she croaked. "Secure whatever matters.".
John nodded and left, shouting commands at the remaining men.
I walked up close, my voice low. "Fiorella."
She wouldn't look my way.
I followed her stare, absorbing what was in front of us. The fire died down, mere smouldering coals and wisps of smoke snaking into the sky. But already it had made its impact. The estate remained standing barely, walls burned, windows broken, the roof part-collapsed.
This was her home. Her father's. And now, nothing but destruction.
"This was him," she finally spoke. "Vittorio did this."
I didn't need to ask her how she knew. I sensed it myself.
"Yeah," I said. "It was him."
Her jaw clenched, lips tightening into a hard line. But below the steel of her face, I saw something else. A glimmer of exhaustion. A crack in the armour.
I reached for her hand automatically, my fingers on hers. She didn't withdraw her hand.
She let out a breath, one that seemed precariously close to breaking. "I’m tired of this."
"I know, right now we have to attend to your shot," I instructed her, my voice stern. "This war can’t be won if you’re dead Fiorella."
She finally met my gaze, dark eyes raking over mine. There was still flame there, but it was contained now, sharpened. "I know," she said. "But I'm not going to sit around and let them attack us again."
I knew she did.
And I knew this was just the start.
Fiorella stood in the ruins, the smoke curling around her like an evil omen. The wreckage of her home smouldered, embers glowing like the remains of a battlefield. The estate that had been passed over generations—her father's kingdom, her inheritance—was now a blackened hulk of what it once was.
She clenched her fists so tightly her nails bit into the palms of her hands, the stinging causing her to recall the fury waiting to consume her. This was done by Vittorio. Her own blood who turned against her, now, joined with the Marchesi, plotting in the shadows, biding its time to attack.
He had sought to shatter her. He believed he could.
She turned to me, her voice firm. “I’m going to burn everything he owns to the ground.”
I studied her, I supported her.
“You won’t be alone in that,”
Fiorella breathed slowly, but it served to do nothing to extinguish the flame coursing through her veins. Her uncle had erred—a grave one. He thought he could take it all from her, leave her with nothing. But he had only made her more lethal.
“I’ll burn down everything he owns if I have to.”
Her mind whirled with things to do, plans forming like a blueprint of vengeance. Vittorio was always a man of excesses. He cherished power, wealth, domination. She would rob him of them all.
"And when he has nothing left," she breathed, "I'll make him beg for mercy before I send him to hell myself."
I smiled faintly, something dark dancing in his eyes. "I hope you let me watch."
The medic took care of her shot, cleaned her up and I could tell hoe pissed she was right now.
Fiorella turned on the wreckage of her home, inhaling, letting the bitter reek of smoke brand this moment into her mind. This was not a matter of revenge. This was a matter of reclaiming what belonged to her.
If Vittorio wanted war, she would give him.
And she would not be defeated.
I’ll make sure if it.