Chapter 57 Rocco
The morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came after a storm. The house awakened slowly, coffee brewing in the kitchen, the soft murmur of Rafael on the phone with someone, the creak of occasional footsteps down the hall. But my mind was preoccupied with one thing.
Fiorella.
I approached her door, the majority of the clothes in my hand heavier than they should be. She hadn't emerged from her room since last night. Not to eat. Not to talk. And I understood why.
I knocked twice.
There was nothing
Then, after a period, a gentle, "Yes?"
Her voice was husky, as if she had not slept, as if sorrow and anger had camped out in her room and refused to leave her alone to rest. I opened the door softly, coming inside.
She leaned on the bed, her back to me, her shoulders slumped. The light filtering through the curtains fell just short of her, and it cast shadows on the hard planes of her face. Even in stillness, she stood as if holding herself together, like a woman who had lost it all and was already planning on how to get it all back.
“ I brought you a change of clothes," I said, setting down the folded items on the chair beside her. "Figured you won’t be able to go back home for your belongings. "
Her fingers twitched, barely, where they rested on her lap. She hadn't yet looked at me.
"Breakfast would soon be ready," I continued. "You need some food. "
Silence persisted.
I exhaled, smoothing back my hair. "Listen, I understand. You've got a lot on your plate. But you have to take care of yourself too."
Finally, she rolled her head a quarter turn, her eyes darting to the clothes and then falling back on me. Her look was shut down, but behind the exhaustion, I saw it, the weight of it all crushing her.
"Wait, I'll come down," she answered quietly, more even. "I might just take a little while."
I nodded, stepping back "Take whatever time you want."
By the time I reached the door, I had glanced back to find her sitting there still, still engrossed. But the mere fact that she had suggested coming down, that she was not closing herself off entirely—well, for the moment, this was enough.
She was strong. But even the strongest needed to be reminded that they were not alone.
I walked into the dining room, the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs filling the air. Sunlight streamed in through the large windows, casting a golden light upon the shining table, yet the atmosphere hung heavy—much too heavy for a calm morning.
Rafael was at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow, his jaw set. Across from him, Riccardo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his easy smile nowhere to be found. They were already deep into discussion, and I could guess what it was about before a word was ever spoken.
"She barely made it out of that ambush alive," Rafael grumbled, laying his phone down on the table with a pointed sigh. "And then she returns home and discovers the house is in flames." He shook his head again. "That's enough to break a human being."
I pulled out a chair and sat down in silence. I had considered it all through the night. Fiorella locked in shock as her past went up in flames, as all of her father's labours were left to burn.I couldn't shake the look from my mind. The way that her face had gone blank. The way that her breathing had grown slow, controlled, but her fists had tightened into fists at her sides as if sheer willpower was the only thing keeping her from breaking.
"Can you imagine ?" Riccardo breathed, voice lower than usual. "You survive an attack, only to find your home on fire? Everything she had left, burned to the ground."
I didn't need to imagine it. I had seen it.
Rafael sat up straight, arms across the table. "She's resilient, but even she has a breaking point."
My fingers tapped against the table, slow and steady.
"She won't break."
Riccardo laughed dryly. "You sound so sure."
"I am."
She wouldn't break. Not Fiorella. She was too stubborn, too determined. But that didn't mean she couldn't hurt. Couldn't be standing over something black and awful, looking down, balancing between the chances of falling.
"She won't break," I told him again. "She'll take her revenge."
Riccardo shook his head with a snort. "Oh, no doubt. But how long can she survive? That's what's important."
There was silence between them.
I knew the answer already.
Fiorella would burn the whole world to ashes before she'd ever allow her uncle to pull this off. But revenge had a nasty habit of consuming people from the inside out. I'd seen it before, seen fine men get destroyed in the fires of their own revenge.
And I wasn't about to let it happen to her.
"She's coming down shortly," I informed him, pushing his chair back. "Don't mention any of this."
Riccardo's eyes raised. "You don't believe she doesn't already know what we're talking about?"
"She knows," I said. "I just don't want her coming in here and thinking we're treating her like some fragile thing."
Rafael nodded slightly. "Fair enough."
The discussion went on after that, but I wasn't paying attention anymore.
My head was up there, where she was.
And I couldn't help feeling that by the time it was all over, I'd have to remind Fiorella that revenge was worthless if she lost herself in the process.
I sat at the head of the grand dining table and watched Rosalia move around the kitchen in quiet motions. She was the very picture of a perfect wife—soft, helping, and calm as she prepared the breakfast table. She had this gift of making everything look so effortless. Everything, down to her place here.
Then Fiorella came down the stairs, and the mood in the room shifted. She was dressed in her usual black, her presence commanding attention immediately, but she made no effort to demand it. She simply was. The way she stood, with quiet but unyielding strength, was contrasted with the softness of Rosalia.
My eyes fell on the bandage across her shoulder. I was the one who had gotten the doctors to her, stitched her up, but it was clear she wasn't as fine as she acted. There was something in the way she stood that told me she was still in pain from that bullet.
“Morning," Fiorella replied, the tone monotone, nodding my way and Rafael's as she took a seat.
"Fiorella," I said to her, my tone low, frustration cutting through despite my efforts to maintain it in abeyance. "How are you?"
She lifted her eyes to mine and for a second, I could catch the flash of anger cutting through her face. "I'm fine," she replied, her tone flat, though I could sense the edge to it. "Just a scratch, Rocco."
"Ha. Fiorella unable to handle a little bullet wound?" Riccardo jeered, his voice laced with sarcasm. He got up and took a plate of eggs from the table and sat down next to Rafael, moving slowly to find a comfortable position.
Fiorella didn't even blink. "You think I'm unable to handle it?" she snapped, her tone sharp as she poured a glass of water. "I've been shot before, Riccardo."
Riccardo chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm just saying. Next time, maybe you might want to let someone else do the fighting." He grinned, looking at me sidelong. "You know, like Rocco. I'm sure he'd be just dying to get shot for you."
I shot him a warning look, but he didn't mind. He never did. Riccardo could do whatever he wanted and nothing would penetrate his skin. But I wasn't in the mood for joking, especially not when Fiorella's stubbornness was pushing me to the limit.
"I don't need a damn babysitter," Fiorella snarled, cutting into her eggs with more aggression than she required. She was pushing me, the way she always did. "I can take care of myself."
I'm fine," she echoed, this time in a softer tone, as if she was attempting to comfort herself even more than anyone else.
But I knew better. And if she wasn't going to allow me to help her, then I was damn well going to keep her under observation. I'd ensure she didn't get over the edge, no matter how much it enraged her.
Riccardo, sensing the atmosphere, smirked and pushed his plate to one side. "Well, if she's fine, then I guess I'll be off. I don't need to be party to this melodrama." He got up slowly, throwing a wink at Rafael and then out of the room.
The moment Riccardo left, the room became heavy with silence. Fiorella did not look my direction, and I did not know what to say. We both knew that things were never as black-and-white as she made them out to be.
"Don't push yourself too hard," I said finally, the words slipping out softer than I intended them to. "Just let me know how I can be of help Fiorella."
Her gaze flashed in my direction, but she said nothing. I did not expect that she would. Some things, she would never admit. And that was alright.