Chapter 56 Fiorella
The smell of smoke lingered in the air, thick and acrid, clung to my clothes, my skin, my body. Behind me, the remains of my family home smouldered and burned, but the fire that raged inside me burned hotter than anything the Marchesi or Vittorio could. Then the phone rang.
I already knew who it was before I even glanced at the screen. My hand closed over the device, clutching tight until my knuckles turned white. I picked it up without hesitation, holding it against my ear.
"Fiorella."
Vittorio's voice oozed over the receiver, heavy with contempt. "What a shame about the house. Years of history, wiped out in a night. You must be distraught."
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, my voice hard. "You called to gloat, huh?"
He chuckled, the sound slow and measured, his voice sending shivers down my spine. "Not precisely. I wanted you to learn something, niece. This is what you get for not knowing your place. For refusing to listen."
I was quiet, my silence provoking him to continue.
"The Marchesi were only too happy to remind you, weren't they?" he went on, speaking smugly. "And let me tell you, this is merely the beginning. You should have left when you could have. Now, you're going to lose more than a house."
A slow breath left my lips, measured, controlled. My body was coiled, every muscle in my body tightened like a spring. But my face—my face was blank, unreadable.
"You think this is a victory?" I said, voice falsely soft.
"It's a lesson."
I could almost see the smirk on his face, the arrogant glint in his eyes. He thought he had me cornered.
"You should have killed me, zio," I spat, voice cutting like a knife.
There was silence. A fleeting moment of quiet, just long enough to let my words sink in. Then, he laughed.
"Oh, I was right about you," he thought. "You really are your father's daughter. So much arrogance. So much confidence. But look where that got him."
Something inside me snapped.
The world grew indistinct at the edges, red bleeding into my eyes like ink spreading across a page. My father's face flashed into my mind—his strong presence, his unyielding loyalty, his brutal death. My breathing was deep, controlled, my heart thudding in my chest like a war drum.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rocco watching me, his stance subtly shifting, as if ready to step in.
He didn't need to.
"You're right on one thing," I whispered, my grip on the phone tightening. "I am my father's daughter. And like him, I'll fight to my last breath for what's mine."
Vittorio laughed mockingly. "Then you should probably start keeping track of those breaths, because they're few, you don’t have much time left."
The line went dead.
I yanked the phone from my ear, gazing at the screen, my jaw locked so tightly it ached. My hands trembled, not with fear, but with the raw anger seething beneath my skin.
As I raised my head, Rocco continued to stare at me, his face unyielding, but his dark eyes watchful, calculating.
"He called to gloat, sick bastard," I said, low and menacing.
Rocco's mouth curled up into something very close to a smirk, but his eyes held no humour. Only cold, calculating intent. "Good. Let's give him a lesson on what a mistake that was."
I took a deep breath, pushing air into my lungs, soothing the storm raging within me.
This was not over.
Things were getting heated.
He wanted me to be powerless. He wanted me to break.
That would never happen.
A presence beside me pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. Rocco. He hadn’t said much since the fire was put out, but he’d been there. Watching. Waiting. And now, his voice was calm but firm when he finally spoke.
“You’re coming with me.”
I turned to him, my face blank. “I can take care of myself.”
"I know." He wasn't hedging. "But you're not sleeping here, and I don't think I can count on your uncle not to do it again. My apartment is safe. You can stay there as long as you want to."
A tiny bit of me wanted to refuse out of principle. Getting help wasn't my thing—not unless I was in control. But this wasn't pride anymore. This was survival. And I had to be smart if I was going to get everything back from the people who had stolen it from me.
I swallowed hard, my gaze coming back to the ruins of my home. The coals were still smouldering, giving off a dim light in the darkness like extinguished stars. There was nothing there for me.
I let out a slow breath, then nodded sharply. "Fine."
Rocco said nothing more. He simply turned and gestured for one of his men to bring the car. I followed him, leaving the wreckage behind without looking back.
The drive home was silent. I looked out the window at the blur of city lights passing by, my mind still stuck on replaying the events of the evening. Vittorio had planned this. Vittorio had done this. And the bad thing about it? I had allowed him. I had been so focused on the Marchesi danger that I did not realize the knife that my own blood was holding at my back.
That would never happen again.
As soon as the vehicle finally pulled into Rocco's driveway, I turned my attention back to reality. His place was large but not excessively large. Fortified, unassuming, a dwelling designed to live through whatever lay ahead for the world. Armed guards hung at strategic spots, their gaze sharp, their posture tight. Cameras watched every angle.
The kind of facility a person such as myself would be able to sleep with two eyes closed.
I stepped out of the car, drinking it all in, and Rocco swung open the front door, holding it for me to go in ahead of him. The warmth within was a blinding contrast to the cold outside air, but I did not unbend. I could not.
His home was tidy, neat—like he was. No unnecessary ornament, no wasted space. Each thing served a purpose.
I stood up to him, sort of folding arms across my chest. "I appreciate the hospitality, but don't go treating me like a helpless guest."
A spark of amusement wrinkled his mouth, flashing in his dark eyes. "I wouldn't do that."
I stared at him for a moment, searching for the slightest sign of pity in his eyes. There was nothing. Only comprehension.
The tension in my shoulders eased a little bit.
"Which room is mine?" I insisted.
"Upstairs, second door on the left," he indicated. "I'll have someone bring you clothes tomorrow. If you need anything, let me know."
I hesitated, for the briefest of moments, before agreeing. "Goodnight, Rocco."
I turned and ascended to the upper floor, my pace deliberate, my thoughts already in motion.
Vittorio thought he had won tonight.
He had no idea what was coming his way.
The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the warm golden glow of a single lamp. I sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together, my mind a storm of thoughts refusing to settle. The walls around me were unfamiliar, the air different—cleaner, colder—but nothing could mask the hollowness of the pain in my chest.
My home was destroyed.
I closed my eyes, but the countenance of the fire still burned behind my eyelids. The house I grew up in, the house where my father had made his kingdom, nothing but charred debris. All memory, all that was left of him that was stored in those walls, gone.
A long breath escaped from me, but it failed to release the knot in my throat.
Vittorio.
His very name gave me a fresh burst of anger running through me. My own blood had betrayed me, not just now, but all those years ago. For how long had this been building? Since the death of my father? Or even before that. Had I been so busy proving myself that I never even noticed the knife he had palmed behind his back?
I clenched my teeth, my nails digging into my palms.
He wished to see me gone. He wished to see me dead.
And now, he had allied himself with the Marchesi.
My stomach tightened. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture they presented was more horrible than I had imagined
I had assumed his death to be a tragedy, something that happened because of the world we inhabited. But I was sure he planned every single thing.
I squeezed my fingers into my temples, trying to push away the grief that sought to engulf me. There wasn't time for that anymore. Grief was something I couldn't afford.
What I needed was revenge.
Not just against the Marchesi. Not just against Vittorio.
Against everyone who had stood and done nothing while this was permitted to happen.
I threw myself off the bed, pacing around the room, my head clearing, slicing through feelings until all that remained was calculating coldness. I would take back what was taken from me. I would take back what was mine, piece by piece, no matter the cost.
I wouldn't just survive this.
I would ensure they regret having ever thinking that they could eliminate me.