Chapter 60 Fiorella
The sun pounded down when I came out onto the middle grounds of the estate, boots crunching against the gravel. The atmosphere was thick with dust and the scent of newly-cut wood, together with the caustic tang of steel beams being welded in place. Already, the reconstruction had begun, but not with sufficient haste.
“Move the damn pallets to the east wing,” I barked, my eyes scanning the workers stacking crates near the foundation. “If I see them in the wrong spot again, you’ll be carrying them with broken hands.”
The workers didn't wait long before rushing over to correct the mistake.
Good.
I wasn't going to stand for incompetence today.
Leo dropped into stride with me, his black eyes scanning the property as he held a clipboard stacked with the current inventory reports. "We're getting another shipment in tonight," he informed me. "Top-of-the-line weapons from our Russian contacts. Everything's on the go."
"Did they confirm the quality this time?" I questioned, my brow arched as I took the clipboard from him. "Last time, they tried to sell us defective goods."
"They know better now."
"They better."
I did not need defective weapons. Not when I had enemies at my back.
I walked to the edge of the estate where the latest shipment was being offloaded. Crates lined up, men cutting through plastic seals, opening up the guns within. I took one of the rifles, feeling its weight in my hands, fingers running over the smooth body of the metal before I released the slide, checking the chamber.
Solid.
Satisfied, I nodded to Leo who waved the men on.
That was when I saw him.
Vincent.
My cousin's slouch against the crates, his arms crossed over his chest, his smug little smile curving his lips, made me go ballistic in a second. He was too self-assured, too smug for a guy who didn't really have anything to stand on—only his father's scheming to hold him up.
"What in the world are you doing here?" I said, my voice glacial as I turned to face him.
Vincent brushed the crates aside with a languid gesture. "Just dropping by to check on business. You know, making sure everything's straight."
I raised an eyebrow. "You don't drop by to check on anything. You were sent."
His grin widened. "It's said the men currently working this shipment are still loyal to the D'Angelo name. And, after all, I am a D'Angelo myself."
I glared at him for a good long while, the understanding creeping into place.
He was trying to shut me out.
In the time it took him to say another sentence, I pushed ahead, cutting off the distance between us. He didn't move back, but his smile slipped for half a heartbeat.
"The men are loyal to me," I breathed, putting weight into my voice. "Not to some spoiled lapdog playing at power."
Vincent's jaw twitched, but he wrangled a laugh. "You sure of that, Fiorella? You've lost considerable support. Maybe the family's coming to terms with the fact you were never meant to rule."
The men unloading the crates had fallen silent now, staring at us, waiting.
I didn't think.
My fist struck Vincent's stomach, driving the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, but before he could recover from all of it, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in.
"If I see you getting in my way again," I whispered, venom dripping from my words, "you won't be able to walk."
I shoved him backward hard. He stumbled but righted himself, his cheeks red with shame as the men working around us shifted back to labor, deliberately disregarding him.
Vincent squared his shoulders, adjusting his jacket, and giving me a dirty look. "You'll pay for this, Fiorella."
"Oh, you and your father will pay for every single thing you’ve taken from me ," I shot back. “Now get the hell off my property before I make you.”
His lips compressing into a thin line, he turned and stormed away, his shoulders bristling with barely suppressed fury.
I stood there, watching him go, my own rage seething below the surface.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
I stood still, taking a moment to stare at the space Vincent had left behind, clutching my fingers into fists at my hips. The idea struck me as naturally as breathing, creeping in like a shadow and settling deep inside.
Killing him would not be about vengeance.
It would be a message.
Vittorio had lost a great deal, but his son—his only heir—was the last thing keeping him tethered to real power. If I took out Vincent, it would destroy him in ways nothing else ever could.
I took slow breaths, tilting my head as I imagined it.
Vincent begging, trying to squirm out of it. Maybe he'd even offer me a bargain, thinking he could buy his way out of it. But there'd be no bargaining. No forgiveness.
Only the sharp crack of a gun and silence.
The thought soothed something primal inside me, but it was not enough.
Because Vincent wasn't the only one who needed to die.
Elios.
That name haunted me for much too long.
He was the source of it all. The snake who crawled beneath every betrayal, every threat directed towards me. He was the player of the long game, the one with the patience, playing pieces behind the scenes and allowing others to reap the damages for him.
But I had seen him now.
And I wouldn't stop until I inserted a bullet into his skull.
I ground my teeth, the gravity of it all suffocating me. My father's death. The fire. Betrayal.
Vittorio thought he had me cornered. Thought I was going to break under the pressure.
But he was wrong.
I wasn't going to fight back alone
I was going to incinerate everything he loved to ashes.
The moment I stepped into my training room, the weight of everything that lay upon me, strangling, ruthless. The betrayal, the sacrifices, the war that I was about to unleash on the world—everything burned within me like an endless fever that could never be purged.
I did not bother to wrap my hands. Pain was welcome tonight. I shed my jacket, rolled my shoulders loose, and stood squared in front of the heavy bag. My fists battered it in savage, brutal jabs. Each punch slammed home, rhythmic, angry catharsis.
Vittorio.
My fist cracked into the bag.
Vincent.
Another strike, harder this time.
Elios.
I gritted my teeth, applying all of my body weight to the next punch, and sent the bag flying wildly on its chain. My breathing was strained and fast. The sweat and leather hung heavy in the air, but I didn't register it. I hit harder, faster, unleashing my rage with every blow.
For my father.
For the house that was lost.
For the girl I used to be before they made me this.
I didn't stop until my knuckles were sore, ruby-red with the impact. My chest heaved, my body shaking with exhaustion, but my head was clearer now. The storm inside me had passed, the anger taken down to something cold, something more contained.
I let my head fall forward against the bag, closing my eyes. The room waited with bated breath except for my gasps. My muscle ache pulsed. A reminder I was still present, still upright.
And then, as adrenaline wore off, something else crept in—something gentler, unexpected .
Rocco.
I breathed slowly, my fingers tightening on the worn leather. I didn't need him. I didn't need anyone. But in that moment, the desire to cuddle with him, to let his even breathing soothe me, the strength he carried so easily. It was tempting.
Too tempting.
I loathed it.
But above all, I loathed the fact that I desired it.
That I desired him.
I breathed in shakily and pushed the bag away from me. The war wasn't won. Not even close to it. But for tonight, tonight only, I let myself think about Rocco.
And why, for reasons I wasn't ready to accept, I didn't want to be alone.
I dabbed at my face with the back of my hand, knuckles sore and raw, breath still erratic. The room fell silent now, the heavy bag softly swaying from the effect of my last punch. My body was tired, but my mind refused to rest.
I swallowed hard, glancing over at my phone on the bench across the room.
I needed to call him.
The idea came without invitation, slipping in like a whispered secret I couldn't dismiss.
Rocco.
I could see him—in his calm expression, the manner in which he always knew just what to say without saying it all, the way his presence alone made the turmoil within me seem… controllable. Less crushing.
I winced, bending my battered fingers. I didn't call people. That wasn't who I was. But at that moment, the silence was too deafening, the walls of this house too bare.
Perhaps I just needed to hear him.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up my phone, my heart racing as I scrolled to his name. My finger hovered over the call button, but I paused.
Would he reply?
Of course, he would. He always did.
But what would I say? That I just spent the last hour beating the crap out of a punching bag thinking about him? That I didn't want to be alone, but I didn't know how to invite him to stay?
Pathetic.
I released a harsh breath, locking my phone and setting it back down.
I needed to get a grip on myself.
But instead of walking away, I was reaching for my jacket, the idea crossing my mind before I could stop it.
I could get him something. Not much—something small. Something to indicate he had been important to me these past few days.
The thought pleased something deep inside me, something fragile and unfamiliar.
Shit.
I was falling for him.
I put my fingers on my temple, closing my eyes for a second.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
But the truth seeped deep into my bones, irreparable.
I wanted him.
Not for one night, not because he was a shelter to run into when it stormed.
I wanted him.