Chapter 79 Fiorella
Warmth. That was the first thing I felt.
It was not the frigid sterility of the hospital room or the numb pain crawling through my veins—it was the warmth of a hand around mine, hard and unrelenting, holding on to me.
I followed the warmth, opening my heavy eyes. The room was dark, shadows creeping up the walls, but my gaze immediately landed on the man lying beside me.
Rocco.
He was awake. Wide awake.
His grip on my hand was firm but careful, as though he didn't want to press too hard. His eyes—dark and hard—mapped my face with something I couldn't quite place, something raw and unshielded. He was gaunt-looking, as though he hadn't slept for weeks, but there was no question about the hard intensity in his eyes. He had waited. Watched. Held on.
The second our eyes met, something shifted in his face. Relief. Something deeper than that, something unspoken.
I parted my lips, my throat dry and scratchy. “Rocco…”
His grip on my hand tightened, just slightly. He exhaled, a breath that sounded like it had been held for too long.
“You’re awake.” His voice was low, rough.
I tried to smile, but even that felt like effort. “You look terrible.”
His lips twitched, but there was no amusement in his eyes. Only something deeper. Something haunted.
“I’ve been worse,” he muttered.
I swallowed, my throat aching. “What happened?”
His jaw clenched, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand absently, like he needed to keep touching me. “You were in an accident.”
The words sent a chill through me. And then—flashes. The truck. The impact. The crushing weight of metal.
My breathing hitched. “How bad?”
His fingers tightened around mine. “Bad.”
I blinked, trying to focus, trying to piece it all together. My body ached, but the concern in his eyes made it clear—I had barely made it out.
I forced my gaze back to him, taking in the bruises on his face, the faint line of dried blood near his temple. “And you?” My voice was weak. “You’re hurt.”
His lips pressed together in a thin line. "I'm fine." He hesitated. "You scared the hell out of me, Fiorella."
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. There was an edge to his voice—a one I'd never before sensed. A desperate stillness, a rough edge that bruised my chest.
I tried to flex my fingers, tightening my grip on his. "I'm still here," I whispered.
His gaze met mine, dark and unreadable, but his fingers never let go of mine.
The silence between us stretched, heavy with all the unspoken. Rocco's hand didn't leave mine, his thumb tracing slow, tracing circles on my skin.
And then, the door creaked open.
Soft footsteps filled the room, and two nurses walked in, their expressions shifting the moment they saw me awake.
“You’re awake,” one of them—an older woman with kind eyes—said, a small smile breaking across her face. “That’s a very good sign.”
Rocco rose, his grip on my hand briefly tightening before he released it, but he didn't move very far. Even when the nurses approached, reading off the monitors on either side of my bed, I could feel him, his unwavering watchfulness.
"How are you feeling , dear?" the other nurse asked, her voice gentle as she checked something on the IV stand.
"Tired," I replied, my voice rougher than I expected. "Sore.".
“That’s to be expected,” the first nurse said as she reached for my wrist, checking my pulse. “You took quite the hit, but you’re strong. Your body is healing.”
I felt Rocco's eyes burn into me at that, his body a shadowy presence on the edges of my mind. I turned my head, seeing the tension in his jaw, the way his fists had clenched at his sides.
A nurse moved closer, her stethoscope cool against my chest. “ Take deep breaths for me."
I breathed slowly once, wincing a little at the ache in my ribs.
"Good," she whispered, nodding. "No complications yet. That's a relief."
Rocco finally spoke, his voice low and edged with something cutting. "Is she out of danger?"
The nurse looked at him, her expression calm but firm. "She's stable. But the next twenty-four hours are still critical. We have to monitor for any internal complications, but if she continues like this, she should be fine."
Rocco nodded brusquely, but I didn't miss the tension in his shoulders, as if he were bracing himself for the worst.
"Can she eat?" He asked quickly, his voice abrupt.
The nurse smiled. "Something light. We'll bring some broth and water first to see how she does with it."
I exhaled, already regretting it. But the nurse spoke to me again, her eyes avoiding mine, moving her fingers along the bandage on my brow.
"You're going to be a little dizzy when you sit up, so take it easy."
I nodded weakly.
Rocco stepped forward, his bulk irresistible. "Can I help?"
The nurse glanced back and forth between us, a quirk to her mouth. "I think she'll appreciate it."
He'd already moved before she'd gotten the words out, wrapping a gentle arm around my back. I tensed at the touch, but his warmth sent a shiver of reassurance racing through me.
"Easy," he breathed softly now.
With him helping me , I moved against the pillows, the room tilting fractionally before stabilising again. I gasped shakily, closing my eyes for a moment.
The nurse pulled the blanket back in over me. "Good. Take your time."
As they made their way around the room, checking my IV and scribbling on their charts, Rocco never budged. His hand lightly resting on the edge of my bed, his body a silent anchor.
One of the nurses paused to turn to him before leaving. "She needs rest, but she's good. If anything changes, push the call button immediately."
He nodded stiffly. "I will."
And then they were off, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving us in the soft hum of the machines.
I breathed out slowly, turning my head to see Rocco still staring at me. His face was expressionless, his dark eyes fixed on mine.
"You’re okay?" His voice was low, but there was no doubt about the emotion behind it.
I fought for a small smile. "I'm here."
His jaw snapped shut, his hand sliding toward mine once more. "Yeah. You are."
Something passed between us there, something raw and unspoken.
And as I sat there, his fingers entwined with mine, I knew no matter how much I hurt, as long as he was with me, I would be okay.
Silence surrounded us, thick with unspoken. Rocco hadn't let go of my hand since I woke up, but I saw it in his eyes—the weight he carried, the fatigue carved into the harsh lines of his face. His knuckles were red, a small cut above his brow, the faintest bruising along the edge of his jaw.
I squeezed his hand softly, trying to ground him like he had grounded me. "What about you?" My voice was softer than I had intended, rough but laced with concern. "Are you okay?"
His expression flashed, something unreadable crossing his eyes before he exhaled and moved a little. "I'm okay."
I arched a brow despite the raging pain in my head. "You don't look okay."
That made his lips quiver—just barely—but the humour didn't quite reach his eyes. He let out a slow breath, tracing a thumb over my fingers.
"I took a little hit," he said, as if it wasn't a big deal. "Couple bruised ribs. Stitches. Stuff I can handle."
I stared, my gaze dropping to his chest. Now that I was paying attention, I noticed the careful way he was standing, the way he shifted as if not wanting to make something worse.
"You should be resting too," I whispered.
His jaw clenched. "Not while you were like that."
Like that.
I knew him. Unconscious. On the precipice of something neither of us was ready to say. The way he kept my hand in his a fraction tighter, like he did not have the nerve to let go, tied up my chest for reasons far beyond the accident.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. "The accident," I spoke slowly. "What… what happened?"
His whole body tensed, eyes growing darker, lips compressing into a thin line. For a moment, I was sure he wasn't going to respond. Then he slowly breathed out, tugging a hand down his face.
"It wasn't an accident," he told me, his voice heavy with something hard, lethal. "It was planned."
The words sliced through slowly, the air in the room suddenly colder.
Planned.
I fought to sit up more, but Rocco was already beside me, holding me firm with a tentative hand. "Don't," he whispered, but no one could mistake the strain in his muscles.
I shook it off, my mind spinning. "Planned," I repeated, this time quieter. "By whom?"
His expression grew somber. "Marchesi and your uncle."
I gasped in a sharp breath. My uncle. I should have known.
"He tried to kill me," I panted.
Rocco's jaw tightened. “Yes Fiorella. He wanted to eliminate you."
I shivered inside.
Rocco continued, his voice low but edged with rage. "That truck was ambushing us. It did not just appear out of nowhere. Someone made the call, gave the order. And I swear to God, they will pay for it."
The sheer threat in his voice gave me the chills.
I regarded him, at the fury seething below the surface of his skin. "What have you done?" I asked carefully.
His thumb massaged my hand idly, a contradiction to the metal in his eyes. "Vincent has been taken," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "He's being handled."
Handled.
I understood what that implied.
A corner of me ought to have been shocked. But another, which had lived in this world long enough to understand how things were done, felt nothing but bitter acceptance.
"Does my uncle know?" I demanded.
Rocco nodded once. "He knows."
I swallowed. "And he will retaliate."
"I'm counting on it."
His words sent shivers down my spine, but I didn't blink. Because I knew Rocco. Knew that under all that cold-blooded control, there was something more. Something that smouldered just for me.
And as much as I despised this game we were playing, I also knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that he would reduce the entire world to ashes before he'd let anyone take me from him.
I just didn't know what that would cost us.
There was silence between us as I processed all that Rocco had just told me. My uncle hadn't just attempted to kill me—he'd tried to erase me, like my existence didn't matter at all. Like I was disposable.
I clenched my teeth, my grip on Rocco's hand tightening.
"He called," Rocco continued, his voice low and edged with something lethal. "With feigned concern. Inquired as to whether you were alive or if he should start making arrangements for your burial."
A harsh, bitter laugh slipped out of my mouth before I could cover it up.
Rocco's grip on mine tightened, his face impassive. "Fiorella—"
"He really said that?" I inquired, my tone softer now, edged with something menacing.
Rocco nodded. "Like it was a joke." His eyes darkened. "Like he was already celebrating."
I breathed slowly, my blood going cold. My uncle had wanted me dead. And now? Now I wanted him to suffer.
Rocco glanced at me, something in his eyes that understood. "Fiorella."
"What?" I asked demurely, tilting my head.
His lips compressed. "I recognize that look."
I arched a brow. "What look?
"The one that tells me you're already plotting something."
I smiled long. "Maybe I am."
He rubbed his hand across his face, a gentle sigh. "Fiorella, you must rest—"
"I have to make him pay."
A spark flitted through his eyes. Something unknowable. "That is being handled."
"By someone else."
Rocco let out a breath, fighting to keep his patience intact. "Fiorella—"
"How's Vincent?" I asked instead forcing him to swallow a snarl.
That drew a smirk, dark and entertained. "Not having a good time."
I released a low chuckle. "Good."
Rocco regarded me for a long moment before leaning in slightly, his voice dropping lower. "We chopped off his finger," he said, observing my reaction. "Sent it as a gift to his father."
A quick, bitter laugh burst out of my lips before I could swallow it back. The way he said it so offhand, the naked arrogance of it.
Rocco arched a brow. "That amuses you?"
I glared back at him, unbending. "Yes."
A flash of something flickered in his eyes—approval, maybe. Amusement. Something sinister.
"Fiorella," he whispered, his tone gentler now, with warning mixed with something else.
"You don't have to do this."
I glared back at him. "I want to."
Silence lay between us, thick and heavy.
Then, slowly, Rocco exhaled, shaking his head. "You really are something else."
A wicked, slow smile twisted my lips. "Oh, Rocco," I whispered. "You have no idea."