Chapter 78 Rocco
The moment I stepped out of the warehouse, the cold night air hit me in the face. It stank of gasoline and salt, the smell of the dock mixing with the metallic tang of blood still stubbornly adhering to my gloves. My pulse was steady, but beneath it, a dull aching pain was spreading through my body. I shrugged my shoulders, forcing my muscles to unclench. Now was not the time to give in to the pain.
I heard the crunch of boots on gravel before I saw him.
Rafael.
He stood near the entrance, arms folded, his piercing gaze sweeping over me from head to toe. He took in the blood on my sleeves, the way I was cradling my left side, and the exhaustion I did not wish to admit climbing up my back.
“You done?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like he already knew the answer.
I exhaled, running a hand down my face. “For now.”
Rafael’s lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced past me toward the warehouse doors. “Did he break?”
I smirked, though the movement pulled at the cut on my lip. “Like glass.”
Rafael nodded once, stepping forward. “Good. I’ll take it from here.”
A tone in his voice made my smile fade. I knew that sparkle in his eyes—one that preceded destruction, that which heralded a man who had nothing more to lose in protecting what was his.
Vincent had no idea what was coming.
I did not even attempt to stop him. Rafael was not a man you stopped when he had his mind made up about something. He went about things his way, and right now I was too drained to struggle.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small clear plastic bag. Inside was Vincent's severed finger, all wrapped up like a gruesome little gift. Rafael held it between two fingers, looking at it with mild interest, then put it back into his pocket.
"Vittorio will have his package by morning," he drawled. "A little memento to assist him in remembering us."
I gave a low chuckle, but it was cut short by a sharp stab of pain radiating from my ribs.
Rafael’s gaze snapped to mine, his brows drawing together. “You look like shit.”
I exhaled through my nose, straightening. “I’ve had worse.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You’re bleeding through your damn shirt.”
I glanced down, watching the dark red spread into the fabric. Huh. I must have opened something up when I twisted the knife in Vincent's arm. The pain had been numbed at first, burned out by the adrenaline rushing through my system, but now that the high was fading, it was struggling its way back, sharper and more insistent.
I clenched my teeth, shoving it to the back of my mind. "I'll deal with it."
Rafael wouldn't have it. "No. You're going back to the hospital."
I protested, opening my mouth, but he cut me off with a sharp look.
"Fiorella is still unconscious," he told me, his voice gentler now but no less commanding. "You need to be there when she wakes up."
That struck harder than I expected.
Fiorella.
I inhaled slowly, my eyes closing for a moment. The last time I'd laid eyes on her, she'd been so still, so pale, wires and tubes hooked up to her frail body. The memory made my throat tighten, a new kind of pain settle into my chest.
I'd promised her she'd be okay.
And there she was. Fighting for her life because of me.
Rafael must have seen something in my face because his own eased—a bit. "Go," he ordered me. "I'll handle the rest."
For once, I didn't argue.
Rafael's back was already turned, bellowing orders at the men who were spread out around the perimeter. I barely heard them as one of our drivers stepped forward, opening the back door of a black vehicle.
I climbed in, leaning my head against the seat.
The second the door shut, the exhaustion hit me with its full weight.
The pain I had kept at bay all night came back with a vengeance. Every cut, every bruise, every broken rib—it was all screaming now, demanding attention.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself not to move.
Pain was fleeting.
Fiorella was what mattered.
I clenched my fists, ignoring the burn in my knuckles, ignoring the ache in my body from each and every form of torture I had used tonight.
Vincent had said his piece. Vittorio would get his message.
And soon, I would make sure that this was finished.
One way or another.
The drive back to the hospital felt like it was longer than necessary. Maybe it was the exhaustion creeping over my body, the pain in my ribs growing worse by the second, or maybe it was anticipation clawing at me.
Fiorella.
I needed to see her.
The second the car stopped in front of the hospital, I propelled myself out, not caring how my muscles protested. Freezing air-conditioning and antiseptic scent hit me the moment I stepped inside, and I strode past the front desk without so much as a glance at the nurses who were gazing at my battered state.
I knew exactly where I was going.
Riccardo was already outside Fiorella's door, waiting for me. He had his arms crossed, his piercing eyes raking me with a mix of relief and irritation. Relief that I was back. Irritation that I had left at all.
"You look like hell," he snarled, but underlying his tone was a note of concern.
I ignored it. "How is she?"
Riccardo exhaled, running a hand through his black hair. "Still unconscious. The doctor says the next twelve hours are critical. If she doesn't wake up by then…" He trailed off, but I didn't need him to. I already got it.
If she didn't wake up soon, it wouldn't be only a coma we'd be dealing with.
My jaw clenched. "And what else?"
Riccardo's expression turned colder. "Marchesi's people have gone quiet. Too quiet. It's not over, Rocco."
I had expected as much. Vittorio was not the type of man to back down after a single defeat. No, he would regroup, strike us harder. He'd want us to endure every second of the pain we'd inflicted.
But I was not going to let that happen.
“He's getting his package by sunrise," I said matter-of-factly, rolling the tension out of my shoulders despite the searing pain it brought. "Let us see how quiet he is after that."
Riccardo's lips formed less than a smirk. "And Vincent?"
I let out a controlled sigh. "He screamed like a pig.
A dark glint flickered in Riccardo's gaze, the kind that ran through De Luca veins. "Good."
I moved past him, my gaze pulled to Fiorella's still form through the glass door of her room. My stomach twisted at the sight. She was too pale, too frail against the stark white sheets. The machines clicked away alongside her, their rhythm the only sign she was still there, still fighting.
"She'll wake up," Riccardo said suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. "She's a fighter."
I didn't answer. I just moved in.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the glow of the monitors. I drew the chair closer to her bed, lowering myself down onto it with a groan. The pain in my side intense, but I barely noticed.
I reached out my hand, brushing my knuckles against hers. Cold. Too cold.
"She needs to wake up," I whispered, my voice more gentle than I intended.
Because if she didn't…
I couldn't finish that thought. I couldn't.
I just sat instead, watching her, waiting.
And plotting.
Because one way or another, this war will end.
And I was going to make damn sure Vittorio regretted ever laying a hand on what was mine.
The doctors came in and took me back to my room to attend to me and gave me some drugs that knocked me out. When I woke up I felt a bit better and went back to Fiorella’s room.
The steady beeping of the machines reverberated through the silence of the hospital room, which was dark except for a sliver of light from the half-closed blinds. I sat motionless in the chair beside Fiorella's bed, my fingers wrapped loosely around her cold hand, my thumb mindlessly tracing the delicate knuckles. It had been hours. Hours of staring at her motionless form, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, waiting for some sign that she was coming back to me.
The doctors stated the next twelve hours were crucial. Time was slipping through my fingers like sand, and with each ticking moment, the pressure on my chest grew.
My body screamed for rest, but I ignored it. The pain in my ribs had intensified, and the bruises I'd gotten from the crash and the torture session some time ago throbbed in protest, but none of it mattered. Not compared to this.
I exhaled slowly, my fingers tightening around her hand. "Fiorella, you need to wake up," I whispered, my voice hoarse.
Nothing.
My jaw clenched. I had looked death in the eye more times than I could count. I had constructed an empire on blood and violence, killed without hesitation, survived wars that would have killed lesser men. But nothing—nothing—had ever been as terrifying as this.
She wasn't supposed to be lying here, broken and unconscious. She was supposed to be arguing with me about something trivial, rolling her eyes at my words, challenging me with that glint in her eyes that I had grown addicted to.
I leaned forward, my forehead against our joined hands.
"Come back to me," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
The silence dragged on. My heart pounded dense and heavy in my chest, each beat crashing into my ribs like a battle drum.
And then—
Movement.
Barely noticeable , but I felt it.
A flicker of her fingers against mine.
I snapped my head up, my heart stuttering.
And then, a soft inhale.
A soft, pained moan.
Her fingers moved again, this time with purpose.
My throat went dry. "Fiorella?"
A flicker of movement behind her eyelids.
My grip on her hand tightened. "Fiorella, can you hear me?"
A shaky breath slipped from her mouth. Her eyebrows furrowed, her lashes fluttering weakly.
And then—weakly, slowly—her eyes opened.
My breath caught in my throat.
Those beautiful, dark eyes, misty with confusion, locked with mine. She blinked slowly, as if it required immense effort. Her lips parted slightly, the faintest whisper of my name escaping.
And with it, the world felt good again.
She was here.
She was alive.
And everyone involved was going to regret it in ways they couldn't even begin to imagine.