Chapter 67 Rocco
The aroma of the food lingered in the air, rich and enticing, but it wasn't the pasta that had my complete focus—it was her.
Fiorella glided around the dinner table with grace, filling my glass with wine, placing her own plate down before sitting across from me. The dim light of the chandelier above her cast a warm glow over her, making her skin appear softer, even more inviting.
The black satin nightie she was wearing clung to her in a way that parched my throat. She wasn't trying to seduce me—not consciously, at least—but everything about her did. Her attitude, the faint arch of her eyebrow when she caught me staring, the way she relaxed back in her chair with a silent confidence that demanded attention.
"Stop looking at me like that and eat," she said, picking up her fork.
I smiled, leaning for my glass instead. "I'm just surprised. Didn't think you had it in you to cook."
She rolled her eyes, but I didn't miss the smile that tipped her lips upward. "Just try it before insulting me."
I twirled a forkful of pasta and took a bite. The moment the flavor hit my tongue—rich, creamy, with just the right amount of garlic and spice—I let out a low rumble of appreciation.
"Damn," I said, leaning back. "Didn't think it'd be this good."
She raised an eyebrow. "What, you think I'd burn it?"
"Wouldn't have been surprised," I teased, watching as she sipped her wine slowly, her fingers delicate around the stem of the glass. "But no, this is impressive. Could get used to this."
She smirked, but there was something almost shy in the way she looked down at her plate before twirling another bite onto her fork.
A rare moment of softness.
I let the silence hang for a while, enjoying the comfortable quietness between us. No superficial chatter, no meaningless small talk was required. Just the sound of forks scraping against plates, the muffled thrum of the city beyond the penthouse windows, and the warmth of her presence.
She finally laid her fork down and propped her chin on her hand, gazing at me with curious eyes. "What's your favorite childhood memory?"
I stared, taken aback by the question. "That's random."
She shrugged. "We always talk business. Thought I'd try something different."
I tapped my fingers on the table, thinking. Favorite memory? That was not something I spent time pondering. My childhood was not gentle, was not kind. But if I had to pick something…
When I was ten or so, my father took Rafael and me out to the country for a week," I said finally, my voice a little softer than before. "No business, no security, just us. We went riding horseback, fishing, even camped one night."
Fiorella tilted her head slightly to one side, interested. "Sounds peaceful.
"It was." I sighed barely audibly, a ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth. "It was the last time I ever saw my father really relaxed. No war, no tension, just… a guy chillin' with his sons."
She was silent for a moment, staring at me with those intense, knowing eyes. Then, softly, she said, "I think he'd be proud of the man you've become."
There was a constriction in my chest. I didn't have an answer to that, so I didn't give one. I just held her eyes instead, letting the weight of her words fall between us.
"Your turn," I switched topics. "Favorite childhood memory?"
She exhaled through her nose, smiling slightly as she thought about it. There was this one summer when I was a kid… My mother took me to her parents cabin for a week. The two of us, no business, no men with guns, no responsibilities." A slight, nostalgic smile crossed her face. "She let me eat as much ice-cream as I wanted, we stayed on the beach all day, and at night we'd sit on the balcony, staring at the stars. It was the happiest I’d ever seen her.”
I watched her closely, noting the way her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass absentmindedly, as if lost in the memory.
She wanted to take me again the next year," Fiorella continued, voice gentler. "But… things changed after that. My father needed her in the business. And then…" She broke off, shaking her head slightly before her eyes returned to mine. "But for that one summer, it was perfect."
I didn't need to ask what had happened. I already knew.
Her mother had been one of the most formidable women in this world, a woman you did not want to cross. And yet she had not survived.
Fiorella took another sip of wine, as if to wash out the recollection. "You ever been to the coast?"
"Once," I said. "A job, though. No gelato involved."
That earned a laugh from her, a tiny but genuine laugh that made something in my chest warm. "Maybe you should go sometime. Not for work, for enjoyment."
"Maybe," I said, still watching her. "If you come with me."
She froze, taken aback by what I'd said. And then, slowly, she smiled. "Are you asking me on a vacation, Rocco?"
"Just saying, if we're making dinner for each other now, a quick trip doesn't sound so crazy."
Her eyes flashed with something unreadable, something guarded but intrigued.
But before she had a chance to respond, I leaned back, smiling. "Depends on if you cook again, though."
She snorted. "Cocky bastard."
"You like it."
She didn't deny it. Instead, she pushed her empty plate aside and stood, taking her wine glass with her. "You want dessert?"
"What kind?" I asked watching her intently.
She shrugged. "I have some tiramisu in the fridge."
I raised an eyebrow. "You made that too?"
She rolled her eyes. "No, I bought it. I'm not that amazing.".
I chuckled, trailing behind her as she moved in the direction of the kitchen. My gaze tracked the way the nightgown clung to her form, the casual swish of her hips, the way she moved with so much confidence and yet, with me, there was an underlying gentleness to it.
Something real.
I'd spent years at this life, surrounded by power, by loyalty and betrayal, by everything sharp and brutal. But sitting here, watching her move around my penthouse, smiling at our banter, making me dinner…
For the first time in a bit, it didn't feel like business.
It felt like something else.
And that?
I wanted dangerously.
"What will you give the meal as a rating?"
I leaned back in my chair, smirking at Fiorella as she waited nervously for my verdict. She had made an effort with this, I could tell by the way she kept glancing over at me while I was eating, watching for any reaction on my face.
Finally, I wiped at my mouth with a napkin and sighed. "Seven."
Her eyes widened. "Seven?"
I shrugged, taking another sip of wine. "You did well—for a newbie."
Fiorella made a noise of distaste, her mouth falling open in feigned offense. "A seven? That's the best?"
I bit back a smile when she leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. Her nightgown slipped off her shoulder a bit, revealing the smooth shape of her flesh. My eyes lingered there a moment too long, and she noticed.
"You're impossible, Rocco," she whispered, her head shaking. "I worked hard on this, you know."
"I know." My voice was low, deep, rough with something unspoken. "And I liked it."
She blew out a sigh, rolling her eyes, but I saw the glint of amusement in them. And then, before I could say anything else, she stood and moved around the table, placing her hands on the back of my chair and leaning down. Her scent—something warm and faintly sweet—enveloped me, stirring something primal low in my gut.
“If I got a seven, how do I get a ten?" she asked, her voice smooth as silk.
I leaned in, my mouth just inches from hers. "You’re sure you want to know?"
Her lips opened slightly, a slow smile playing on them. "Try me."
That was all the invitation I needed.
I pushed my chair back in a single movement, pulling her onto my lap. She let out a startled gasp, her hands flying to my shoulders, but I didn't give her time to react. My lips crashed down on hers, hard and demanding.
She melted into me at once, her fingers clawing into my shirt as I prolonged the kiss, sampling the aftertaste of wine on her tongue. My hands moved up her thighs, following the gentle curve of her gown before moving under it. She trembled, her breath catching as my fingers brushed against her bare flesh.
"Rocco…" she whispered into my mouth, her voice winded, almost imploring.
I groaned, leaning in to kiss down the curve of her neck, nibbling gently at the soft spot beneath her ear. She swayed into me, her fingernails scraping the back of my neck.
I stood abruptly, lifting her up with ease. Her legs wrapped around my waist automatically, and she let out a small, breathless laugh before I silenced it with another kiss, heading for the bedroom.
By the time I laid her down on the bed, her nightgown was bunched around her waist, her hair spreading out over the pillows like black silk. She looked up at me with hooded eyes, lips puffy from my kisses, chest rising with expectation.
"You still think this is just a seven?" she teased, her voice a whisper.
I smirked, lowering myself over her, my fingers tracing a slow path up her thigh. “I think you’re about to get a much better score.”