Chapter 66 Fiorella
The smell of wood and dust clung to the air, the sound of hammers and drills taking up the space that had once been my sanctuary. My home remained in ruins, but there was progress—it was slow, steady, and implacable, just like me.
I stood at the edge of the building site, arms crossed, and watched the workers with their competence. Walls were being reinforced, windows being fitted, and the burned parts of the estate being destroyed and rebuilt. It was a painful thing to see, watching the house I grew up in become a work-in-progress, but at least it was being restored. At least I was doing something.
Leo came up to me, his hands shoved in his pockets, seeing the same thing occur. "It's coming along."
I nodded. "It'll be better than it was before when it's done."
"Yeah," he said, but there was something beneath his tone. Concern, maybe. "But you're working too hard, Fiorella."
I breathed out, shifting my weight. "There's no other choice. If I don't keep going, I'll lose control of everything."
Leo let out a low laugh, ruffling his hair. "You're always like this."
I lifted an eyebrow at him. "Like what?"
"Like you have to do everything yourself. Like if you take one minute to catch your breath, it will all fall apart around you." He spun to face me with his full weight now, looking serious. "That's not how it is, Fiorella. You can't keep carrying the world on your shoulders.".
I stayed silent, my hands clenching a little tighter against my arms. He wasn't wrong, but to say that out loud wasn't something I was ready to do.
Leo sighed. "Your birthday is in a few days."
I winced at the sudden shift. "And?"
And, he continued, "you should really do something for once. Escape from all this—" he gestured toward the building site, the chaos, the war seething beneath it all—"and just relax. For once in your damn life, Fiorella."
I gave a derisive snort, shaking my head. "Relaxing isn't really my thing.".
"Yeah, I know. That's the problem." He glared at me. "You need to take a break before you burn yourself out. Go somewhere, even if it's just for a couple of days. I'll handle things here."
I glared at him, my instinctive reaction to not sit on the tip of my tongue. But then, for the first time in weeks, it didn't sound so absurd. Leaving—just for a little while—letting someone else handle things while I finally got my breath back.
It was tempting.
And if I was being honest with myself, there was only one man I wanted to spend that time with.
Rocco.
The consideration itself warmed my chest with a strange feeling of comfort, something I wasn't ready to deal with yet.
Leo nudged me. "Think about it, Fiorella. You deserve that much."
I breathed deeply, at last consenting. "I'll think about it."
And I did mean it.
The sun was setting in the late afternoon, bringing a golden glow to the estate as the employees rebuilt what was lost. I stepped away from the building, already feeling exhaustion in my joints. Leo stayed with me, arms folded and observing me with a knowing stare.
I breathed out. "Can you cook?"
Leo's eyebrows rose high. "Me?"
"No, the other Leo next to you." I glared at him.
He grinned. "No, I don't. Why?"
I rolled my eyes in preparation for this response. "I was thinking about cooking dinner tonight. Something simple."
Leo exploded into a laugh. "You? Cook?"
"Yes, me cooking," I snapped, paying no attention to the laughter in his voice. "I don't see what there is to be amused about that."
"It's just… surprising." He shrugged. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who would have the time or the patience to cook."
I laughed. "I can read a damn recipe, Leo. It's not that difficult."
He smiled. "Okay then, show me what you've got."
I shook my head, pulling out my phone and starting to scroll through recipes. I wanted something simple but nice—something that wasn't going to take forever but still felt like an effort.
Pasta.
That was safe enough. I touched on a few other things, reading ingredients and instructions before I ordered a creamy garlic butter pasta. It didn't seem to be too complicated, and I could have a glass of wine with it.
I quickly messaged one of my men to bring in the ingredients—pasta, heavy cream, garlic, Parmesan, fresh basil, and, of course, a bottle of red wine.
As soon as I sent it, I had this strange sensation of excitement wash over me.
I wasn't merely cooking.
I was cooking for Rocco.
The awareness brought a flush of heat into me, and I couldn't stop myself from smiling, the small smile tugging at my mouth. I had never really done something like this before—not like this. Not because I was told to, not because I chose to.
But I did now.
I shook my head, wiping the odd feeling that was climbing up my spine away. This was dinner. Only pasta.
And yet, why did it feel like something more?
By the time I finally left the construction site, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, bathing the city in a rich orange glow. My muscles ached from the long day, and fatigue settled on my shoulders, but there was another kind of energy coursing through my veins. Something that had nothing to do with work or revenge.
I wanted to see Rocco.
It had been a long day, too many meetings, too many decisions, too many recollections of the war I was fighting. Tonight, for a few hours, I wanted to block all that out.
I pulled into the parking garage and took the elevator up, taking off my heels the instant I was inside the penthouse. The silence wrapped itself around me like a warm hug, and I slowly exhaled, rolling my shoulders as I walked into the living room.
I collapsed into the couch, stretching my legs out and propping my head against it. The lights of the city glittered in the floor-to-ceiling windows, but already my mind was turning to dinner.
I pulled out my phone and dialled Rocco’s number.
He picked up on the first ring. "Missing me already?"
His voice was smooth, taunting, and I could hear the smirk behind it.
I rolled my eyes, although he couldn't see me. "I'd say don't flatter yourself, but we both know that would be a lie."
There was a low rumble of laughter over the phone. "That's true."
I bit my lip, trying to squelch the heat rising through me. "Be here by eight."
He hummed back, as though he was considering it. "And if I say no?"
"Then I'll eat without you."
“Liar,” he said, amusement lacing his tone.
I sighed, shaking my head. “Just be here.”
“Yes, my lady.”
I hung up before he could say anything else, my heart doing an annoying little flip as I set my phone down.
Shoving those thoughts aside, I got up and headed to the kitchen, pulling out my phone to read the recipe for pasta again. The shopping bag had already been placed inside, neatly arranged on the counter. I rolled up the sleeves of my top, pulling my hair back into a ponytail and then got started.
First, I had filled the pot with water and put it on the stovetop to boil. Next, I took the raw garlic and began peeling it, the acrid smell of the sharp fragrance filling the room as I minced it into a fine, milled powder. The recipe needed butter, so I had thrown a couple tablespoons into a skillet and watched them melt into a pool of yellow gold before adding the garlic.
The sizzle was immediate, the aroma of garlic and butter drifting through the kitchen.
I cooked it slowly, waiting for the garlic to soften and perfume the air before adding the heavy cream, watching it thicken into a smooth sauce.
Then the Parmesan. I grated it into fine crumbs, watching as it dissolved into the sauce as I stirred, stirring slowly. I did not cook much, but there was something strangely satisfying about it—following the instructions, watching ingredients merge.
The water was boiling, so I put the pasta in and stirred occasionally, going back to the sauce and adding a dash of salt and fresh basil. The smell was intoxicating—rich and creamy, full of garlic and cheese.
I drained the pasta and put it into the sauce and stirred carefully until it was evenly coated.
I took a step back, letting out a slow breath.
It was perfect.
A faint smile tugged at my lips as I picked up the bottle of red wine, pouring two glasses and setting them on the dining table.
All that was left now was waiting for Rocco.
Hot water cascaded down my back, washing away the exhaustion of the day. Steam curled about me, heavy and comforting, but my mind wasn't on relaxing now.
Rocco would be here soon.
The thought struck me with a charge of electricity, something light and unfamiliar. I had been working all day, constructing buildings, conducting business, and planning my next attack on my uncle. But now I was merely thinking about dinner. Thinking about him.
I emerged from the shower, wrapping a towel around me and walking into the bedroom. The penthouse was quiet, the far-off hum of the city outside the only sound in the room. My phone screen glowed on the bedside table—no messages, but I knew he'd be arriving any minute now.
I ripped open my suitcase, fingers running over my clothes before settling on a black silky satin nightgown. It hugged me in all the right areas, the delicate straps cutting into my shoulders, the silky smooth material rubbing against my skin. It was not that seductive, but it made me feel nice. Comfortable.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see if Rocco paid attention.
I ran a brush through my dripping hair, which fell smoothly about my shoulders, and before departing the room, added a trace of lip balm to my lips.
I heard the knock on the door as I stepped into the living room.
My heart pounded as I opened the door , standing there was Rocco. His dark eyes landed first on mine, and he didn't blink for an instant—just drank me in with his eyes scanning my face and body in a way that made me blush.
And then he allowed a slow smile to creep to his lips.
"Already five seconds in, and I already regret not coming earlier," he said to me, his tone low and teasing.
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't suppress the smile creeping across my face. "You're late."
"Traffic," he shrugged, entering and closing the door behind him. "And I had a feeling it'd be worth waiting for."
I discounted the fact that his words produced a nice little tingle at the back of my neck and folded my arms instead. "You're only saying that because you can smell the food.”
His gaze darted across me to the dining area, where plates had been set out. The overwhelming scent of garlic, butter, and cheese drifted on the air, and for the first time ever, it wasn't the aroma of high-end wine or steak from some fine dining establishment—it was home-made. Something that I did.
He took a step closer, inhaling, then nodded his approval. "It smells good. You actually cooked?"
"That so hard to believe?"
He grinned, coming nearer. "I just never pictured you in the kitchen."
I tilted my head. "I am full of surprises."
He stood beside me now—so near I could sniff the subtle whiff of his cologne, dark and deep, combined with the aroma of the pasta.
His eyes rested on mine for a moment before looking lower, the nightgown again, and for a moment, something not readable flashed through his eyes. But then his smirk came again, and he leaned in, just a little bit.
"Surprise me then," he whispered. "Let's try it and see if it smells as good as it tastes."
I turned around quickly before he could see how much that look affected me, making my way towards the dining table and sitting down. "Then sit down and find out."
I felt him watching me as I walked, the presence both familiar and ravenous, but my expression was neutral. I had no idea what this night was going to be like. But as I served him his plate and filled glasses with wine, one thing was certain.
I wanted him.