Chapter 81 Fiorella
The scent of the rose still clung to my fingers, even after I had crushed it. Even after thorns had stung my skin and I had watched little drops of blood bloom along my fingertips. The pain had been insignificant, nothing to the fire burning inside me.
I wanted out of this hospital.
The walls were a cage, suffocating and sanitary. Every second that passed within this bed, every minute wasted within this room, was another opportunity for Elio Marchesi to think through his next move. I was not going to give him that chance.
I looked over at Rocco, who had sat watchfully beside me in the chair beside my bed. He had not spoken a word since the rose had been delivered, but tension radiated off of him. Same rage. Same need for vengeance.
"When am I being discharged?" I asked.
Rocco took a slow breath. "You need to rest, Fiorella."
"I've rested enough." My voice was firm, no argument. "I'm fine."
"You were in a coma for days. The doctors—"
"Don't listen to what the doctors say." I threw the blanket off and dragged my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the dull ache that ran through my body. "We have work to do, Rocco."
He sighed, sweeping a hand across his face before fixing me with piercing, unreadable eyes. "You know I can't stop you."
I smiled. "You wouldn't dare try."
A nervous smirk flickered on the lip of his mouth, but was gone in an instant. He withdrew his phone from his pocket, touched it a few times, then held it up to his ear. "Get the discharge papers ready. Now."
Less than an hour later, I was leaving the hospital, my feet firm, head held high. Rocco had tried to convince me to go straight to the penthouse, but I had somewhere I had to go first.
Vincent.
The warehouse was cold. The air thick with the odour of sweat and blood.
Vincent slumped in a chair, his hands tied behind his back, his head low. His face was bruised, deep purples and blues a puffy mess. Blood was crusted along his jaw, and his left hand was missing its pinky.
I moved closer, my heels clicking on the cold concrete. He didn't look up until I was standing directly in front of him. When he did, his bloodshot eyes crossed with mine, fuelled by nothing but bitter, pure hatred.
"You should have died in the accident," he said, his voice raw and hoarse. "Both of you."
I smiled. "But we didn't." I bent to his level, my gaze tracking each broken piece of him. "And now, you will pay for it."
His lip curled, but I saw it—the glint of fear behind his rage.
"You think you're untouchable. Your end is near," he taunted.
"No," I said, cocking my head. "Yours is."
I leaned in closer, my lips inches from his ear. "But soon enough, Vincent, you will beg for death. And I won't give it to you."
His breathing hitched, and I rose to my feet, drawing back. "You and your father will pay for every drop of blood you shed. I promise you that."
Rocco shifted next to me, arms folded as he glared at Vincent like he was nothing more than a bug to be crushed. "Enjoy your last few days with all your limbs intact."
Vincent's body stiffened.
I looked at Rocco, relishing the usual thrill of satisfaction that came from knowing my enemies were powerless under my command. "Let's go."
There was still work to be done.
And this was only the beginning.
The warehouse smelled of rust and saltwater, the dim bulbs flickering when we stepped in. The room was nearly empty, except for the single chair in the centre where Vittorio sat, tied and battered.
He looked at us, his face puffy, his suit torn and stained. His black eyes found mine, and for a moment, something flashed there. Resentment. Anger. And beneath that—all fear.
But he covered it well, curling his lip back into a sneer. "I should've known you'd never stay dead."
I came slowly, purposively towards him, my heels ringing on the concrete floor. I didn't say anything, just stared at him like you would an insect crawling too close.
He scoffed, shaking his head. "All of it should have been mine. The power, the legacy, the respect. But no—my pathetic excuse for a brother made you his heir. A woman." He spat on the ground at my feet. "I would have done him a service by killing you.".
Rocco balled his fists beside me, but I hardly even looked at him. My focus was on Vittorio. On his arrogance. His foolishness.
I got down on one knee beside him, my head bent to look at the wretched little man before me. "And yet, here you are. Bound. Helpless. Bleeding." A triumphant curl formed at my mouth. "Tell me, Uncle, how does it feel to be nothing?
He glared at me, but his eyes had changed now. A glimmer of uncertainty. He had hoped I was furious, barking at him like a crazed animal. But I was not furious.
I was composed.
I extended a single finger and pressed the bruise on his jaw. He flinched, but I did not ease up. I touched him hard enough to hurt him.
"You tried to kill me," I said, speaking softly. "You failed."
His lip curled. "You don't have the stomach for what needs to be done."
I smiled softly, the sound barely a whisper. "Oh, Uncle." I leaned in, my lips against his ear as I breathed, "You really don't know me at all."
Before he could react, I grabbed the knife from Rocco's belt, my movement quick and sharp. And then—
I plunged the blade into his thigh, twisting deep.
His scream rang out in the empty warehouse, his body jerking against the chains as blood trickled out beneath him.
I leaned forward, my voice as silky smooth as my words. "You will pay for each second you wished me dead."
I tore the knife free, watching as he gasped, his breaths coming short and choppy.
And I smiled.
Because this was only the beginning.