Chapter 80 Rocco
Seventy two hours since Fiorella had woken, and the hospital was not the same—like it vibrated, a trace of anticipation humming under the clinical white walls. Yesterday had been a haze of nurses, tests, and waiting patiently. I was still bruised, my body stiff and sore from the crash, but I barely cared. Not when she was awake. Not when she was here.
She sat on the hospital bed now, wearing a new gown, her hair still tousled from sleep. But she was alive. Fierce. That glint of steel in her eyes was back, and even as the doctor stood before us, listing every precaution she had to take, I could already see the wheels in her mind turning.
".no strenuous exercise for at least a few months," the doctor was saying, looking between the two of us like he already knew we weren't the type to listen. "That's no running around, lifting anything too heavy, and certainly no fighting."
I almost snorted.
"Same with you, Mr. De Luca," the doctor continued, his eyes locking onto me. "Your ribs are still not healed, and your body took some serious damage. You need to let yourself heal, or you'll find yourself back in this bed."
Fiorella gazed at me, her lips curling into a small smile. "Hear that?" she whispered. "No fighting."
I grinned. "No fighting," I said again, rolling my shoulders despite a searing twinge. "Got it."
The doctor let out a deep breath, looking quite clearly unconvinced. "I'm serious. Both of you need to get this. You two are incredibly lucky to be alive, but your bodies need time to heal properly. No stress. No exercise. And for sure, no reckless behaviour."
Fiorella made a humming sound, tilting her head. "Define reckless."
The doctor raised an eyebrow. "If you need to ask, don't do it."
I had to suppress a snort at that, but the shifting pulled at my ribs, and I settled for a tiny smile instead.
"Got it," I said, but Fiorella's hand in mine gave a soft squeeze—silently promising neither of us had any intention of following those rules for more than a handful of minutes.
Once the doctor had left, she let out a small sigh, flinging her arms up before settling back into the pillows. "No strenuous exercise," she thought. "Sounds boring."
I leaned forward slightly, watching her. "You gonna obey?"
She gave me a slow, knowing look. "Are you?"
I grinned. "You already know the answer to that."
Her smile increased, yet there was something else underneath—something malevolent. She let her eyes travel over to the window, her eyes slightly gritted as though she was conjuring something on the other side of these walls.
"Vittorio's waiting," she whispered.
I observed her, the way her fingers curled inward over against the blanket, the way her jaw clenched slightly. She was not dreaming about rest. She was dreaming about war.
I reached out, sweeping a lock of hair behind her face. "We'll get him."
Her face swung to mine, eyes un readable. "I want to do it myself."
There it was—the fire.
I took a slow breath, tilting my head. "Then we plan."
She didn't respond initially. She stared at me instead, eyes tracing the bruises on my face, the stitches beneath my brow. "We both should be in recovery," she said finally, but not a hint of hesitation was detected in her tone.
I smiled. "Revenge is healing."
That made her laugh—a rough, brief sound. "You're impossible."
I moved in closer, tone lowering. "And you love it."
Her face darkened, lips twisting. "Unfortunately.".
I laughed once more, then exhaled, letting the silence fall. The room was quiet, but not calm. It wasn't meant to be.
We weren't meant to be calm.
I tapped my fingers against the bed frame. "Rafael's already moving. Vincent's out of the picture, but Vittorio's still playing smart."
Fiorella snorted. "He won't be for long."
I nodded. "We have to bring him out into the open. He's too cozy where he is. He thinks we're weak."
Her face broke into a slow smile. "Then let's remind him."
A thrill of satisfaction wrapped around my chest. Even in pain, even just off the hospital bed, she was already thinking about war.
"I have an idea," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?
I leaned back, letting the tension mount. "You'll see."
Fiorella's eyes glinted with something sinister, something lethal. And in that moment, I knew—no matter what was to happen, no matter what revenge we were about to exact—she was going to enjoy every second of it.
And so would I.
We weren't just coming back. We were coming back for blood.
The hospital room was dim, the soft beep of the monitors the only sound to fill the air. Fiorella slept, her body healing from the wreck, but her mind? Her mind was going a mile an hour, as was mine. Neither of us could sit or lie still for more than a few minutes. Even now, standing there as I watched her, I knew she was dwelling on it—on him.
Vittorio.
My jaw clenched as I sat back in the chair beside her bed, rubbing a hand over my face. The pain in my ribs was worse now, but I shut it out. I'd been shutting it out since I came out of that hellfire of a car. Pain did not matter. Not when there was still business uncompleted.
And then my phone rang.
I yanked it from my pocket and read the name flashing on the screen before replying. "Rafael."
His voice was hard, but I caught the edge behind it. "Vincent's been moved."
I straightened up. "What did you do?"
"His father sent a team in to take him out." The low chuckle followed. "They never returned."
I found myself smiling against my will. "So they actually tried.".
"They did. Recruited some actual hitters, too." There was quiet, and I could hear the far-off buzz of motors, commotion—Rafael was on the move. "But our guys were ready. Wore them out before they even got to the inside."
Good.
"What of Vincent?" I inquired.
"We moved him. His father's going to keep sending men until he gets what's left of his son back, and I'm not in the mood to play defence."
Neither was I.
I took a slow breath, my fingers tapping against the armrest of my chair. "And Vittorio?"
Rafael drew a breath, one that cautioned me I wasn't going to like what he had to say.
"We got to his location," he answered, voice dropping. "He escaped."
We sat in shocked silence.
Fiorella shifted slightly, her eyebrows furrowing. I placed a light finger on her wrist, grounding myself before responding.
"How?"
"We had the perimeter taped off. Inner and outer perimeter. He somehow managed to slip through."
I clenched my teeth. Vittorio was smooth, but this was getting personal.
"He had an insider," I growled.
Rafael did not protest. "Most likely."
I sat back in my chair, eyes on the ceiling as I let out a sigh. "We'll find him."
"We will," Rafael said. "But he's afraid now. That makes him more dangerous."
Good. I had wanted him desperate. I had wanted him to know that no matter where he ran, he was already dead—he just hadn't reached his fate yet.
"What's the next step?" I asked.
“We keep the pressure on,” Rafael said. “Vincent is leverage. His father will come for him again, and when he does, we’ll be ready. As for Vittorio…” A pause. “We need to cut off every escape route he has left. Money, allies, safe houses—burn them all.”
A slow smirk crept onto my face. “Now you’re talking.”
Rafael smiled, though there was nothing of humour to it. "Riccardo's arranged for Fiorella's protection. You’re still on?"
I glanced at her again, at the subtle lip parting in sleep, as if even here she was unquiet.
"Definitely," I breathed.
Rafael snarled. "Don't do anything reckless."
I said nothing to that.
We both knew I would.
"Get back to me," I replied instead.
"Always."
I hung up, shoving the phone into my pocket once more before catching a glimpse at Fiorella again.
I leaned elbows on my knees. Vittorio had slipped away from us, but he wouldn't slip away for much longer. We'd find him.
And when we did?
There wouldn't be anywhere for him to go to hide anymore.
The hospital was too quiet. Too sterile. Too regulated. It wasn't the kind of environment in which I dwelled, but I stayed—because she was present.
Fiorella had sat up, spoken to me, even sat up for a little while today, but I could tell the frustration smouldering in her eyes. She wanted to rise. She wanted to fight. And I knew that when the doctors finally gave her the go-ahead, she would waste no time trying to get at the people who had tried to murder her.
I sat on the edge of her bed, watching as she lay her fingers nervously on the blanket. She was stronger today, but there was stillness to her, a residual frailty that squeezed my chest. She needed time. Time to heal. Time to rebuild the strength that had been ripped from her in that wreck.
We didn't have time.
The Marchesi were still around. Vittorio was still alive. And every passing day was another opportunity for them to strike again.
There was a knock at the door that had both of us looking upwards.
One of our guards walked in, a red rose held in his gloved hand. "This was brought downstairs. It's addressed to Ms. D'Angelo."
Fiorella scowled. "From whom?"
The guard paused, then marched up and handed it to me. There was a tiny card attached, folded up just under the delicate petals. As soon as my fingers made contact with it, a primal sense warned that something was wrong.
Fiorella felt it too. "What is it?"
I tugged the card free, opening it up. The note was short, written in smooth, cursive letters.
You may have gotten away with it this time, but you won't be so lucky the next time.
E.M
Fiorella's face darkened as she took the rose from my hand, her fingers wrapping around the stem, the thorns sinking into her flesh. She did not flinch.
I exhaled slowly, folding the card and inserting it into my pocket. My muscles flexed, my blood heavy with the old sting of anger.
Elio Marchesi.
He was making a move.
Fiorella turned to me, her words strong through the struggle in her eyes. "I guess that means I had better prepare."
I looked at her, at the fire in her face, and I knew there was no going back on what was going to occur.
She was not sitting and waiting for them to arrive for her.
She was going to hunt them first.