Chapter 63 Rocco
I hadn't expected she'd call.
Hell, I hadn't expected she'd accept the penthouse offer in the first place, much less invite me to join her. Fiorella was not a woman who would depend on anyone—not even me. But when she'd hesitated on the phone, considering her options, and then uttered those four words only if you come with me, something inside me shifted.
Fiorella rolled her suitcase in, slowly but steadily. She was settling in—not just into the penthouse, but into my house. Into my life.
She barely took in the room before collapsing onto the couch, letting out a sigh as she stretched out her legs. "I'm starving."
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "What do you want to eat?"
She tilted her head, considering. "What do you want?"
"Margherita pizza," I said easily. "With extra mozzarella."
She raised an eyebrow, chuckling. "Didn't think you were the simple kind."
I smiled. "Some things don't need to be complicated."
She hummed, pulling out her phone. "I'm getting pepperoni for me. Anything else?"
"Whiskey."
She rolled her eyes but called in the order anyhow. When she was done, she stood up, arching over her head. "I'm going to change."
I stood and watched her step into the bedroom, rolling her suitcase ahead of her. I had half-expected a part of me for her to just take one of my shirts and go, but I should have known better. Fiorella was prepared for anything—even that.
While she was inside, I poured us both a glass, the ice clinking softly against the glass. When she emerged, she was in soft, silk pyjamas—simple, but they clung to her like a second skin.
She caught my gawking. "What?"
"Nothing."
She arched an eyebrow. "Liar."
I smiled but didn't argue.
Just as she was going to push further, the doorbell rang. I drew my gun out of reflex as I approached it to answer it. The delivery man barely looked looked at me as he took the cash from me.
When I turned around, Fiorella was already sitting on the couch, cross-legged, looking at me. I placed the boxes on the table and opened them, the scent of hot cheese and pizza filling the air.
She picked up the slice from the pepperoni box and took a large bite unexpectedly. The words spurted out. "Okay, I needed this."
I pulled one from my box. "Didn't know pizza could cure anything."
"It can't," she admitted between mouthfuls, "but it helps."
We sat in comfortable quiet, the whiskey dissipating the strain neither of us wanted to deal with.
She finally leaned back, extending her legs until they rested against mine. "You're not as bad as I thought."
I raised an eyebrow. "High praise."
She smiled. "Don't get used to it."
I don't know how long we just sat there—talking, eating, in the same space without the weight of the world crushing us.
But I did know something.
I could get used to this.
Fiorella lay back on the couch, her legs bumping against mine as she stretched to claim another slice of pizza. The warmth of the penthouse, the gentle glow of the low lights, and the muffled hum of the city outside formed a bubble around us—a moment of peace to which neither of us was accustomed.
She smiled contentedly, leaning against the couch. "Let's watch a movie."
I turned to her. "A movie?"
"Yeah." She flipped her head around so she was looking at me, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Or are you too busy being mafia boss to sit through one?"
I lifted an eyebrow. "Depends on the movie.".
She picked up the remote and started channel surfing. "I want to see something that doesn't have gunfights or betrayals."
"Nothing that reminds you of our lives then?"
"Right." She kept surfing, then grinned. "A rom-com?"
I grumbled, and she snickered, kicking me with her foot. "Come on, Rocco. It shouldn’t be bad."
I exhaled, shaking my head. “Fine. But if it’s unbearable, I’m picking the next one.”
She smirked. “Deal.”
She clicked on a classic rom-com, one of those movies where the characters spent half the time bantering before inevitably falling in love. The opening scene played, and she shifted, tucking her legs underneath her.
We sat with a comfortable space between us for a bit. But towards the end of the movie, she leaned in without knowing it, her shoulder against mine. I didn't move.
There was one quite funny scene, and she let out a small laugh, her head slightly tilted back. She didn't laugh much, and I found myself looking at her rather than the screen.
She caught on. "What?
"Nothing," I muttered, turning again to the movie.
She smiled but did not protest. She moved again, this time sliding in beside me, her head resting lightly against my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of her body, the soft rising and falling of her breaths.
My arm rested along the couch back, and out of habit, I let my fingers brush her shoulder, tracing the designs across the silk of her pyjamas. She didn't move.
If anything, she leaned in closer.
The movie went on, but my mind had strayed entirely. This was not something I was used to. Fiorella, curled up beside me, trusting me enough to let her guard down, to rest against me like this.
The movie went on, its quiet dialogue blending in with the penthouse's faint hum. Fiorella had long ago stopped reacting to the scenes, her chuckles and snippets of comment devolving into silence. I look down at her, and sure enough, she was fast asleep against my chest.
Her breathing was slow and steady, her muscles relaxed in a way I never thought I had ever seen before. Tension she always carried—the weights of loss, revenge, and obligations—had melted in slumber. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she looked calm.
I allowed my gaze to follow the shape of her face, committing to memory the way her lashes lay against her cheeks, the way her mouth parted slightly as she exhaled. I liked seeing her this way —unguarded, peaceful , safe. And something about it made something in the centre of my chest tighten.
She didn't deserve this life that she had been given.
Fiorella was stubborn, fierce, unbreakable. But she didn't have to be all the time. I wanted—no, needed—to give her moments like these, where she couldn't worry about war, betrayal, or bloodshed.
Softly, I reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. My fingers lingered on her skin one second too long before I leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on the middle of her forehead.
She stirred slightly at the contact, her eyelashes fluttering as she opened her eyes and gazed up at me, still caught in that drowsy state between wakefulness and sleep.
"Mm," she groaned, her voice rough with sleepiness. "Did I fall asleep?"
I smiled. "Yeah you did."
She sighed in disappointment, stretching a bit but not moving away from me. "I didn't mean to."
"I know," I said, shifting slightly so I could see her properly. "You should go sleep in the bedroom. You'll be more comfortable."
She blinked at me lazily, then shook her head again. "I don't want to move."
I chuckled. "You'll regret this tomorrow morning when your neck aches."
She hid her face in my shoulder with a quiet hum, and I could feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. "Then just stay," she mumbled.
I stiffened. "You want to sleep snuggled up with me ?
She nodded, too tired to care how it sounded. I didn't complain. Instead, I moved our position, pulling her closer so she could snuggle more comfortably against me. Her arm was draped over my waist, her body fitting into mine as if this was something we'd done a hundred times.
I felt the slow, rhythmical rise and fall of her breathing, the hint of scent from her hair—a mixture of jasmine and something unmistakably Fiorella.
As I'd thought she'd fallen back asleep again, she murmured against my chest, her words slurred and slow.
"I like this," she admitted. "These moments we have… They're normal. And I like them."
I swallowed, my grip on her increasing fractionally.
She pushed forward again. "But I like them better because it's you."