Chapter 83 Fiorella
The night air was thick with the stench of oil and rust. This was where it would all end, where I would carve the final chapter of my family’s vengeance into the bones of those who betrayed me.
I tightened my fist around the knife sheathed on my leg, its weight a comforting presence.
An hour ago, I received the call.
Elio Marchesi is dead.
Leo had acted exactly as I'd told him, swift and merciless. Elio had thought he could place a hit on my life and be safe. Now he was rotting in a shallow grave and I had been beyond pleased to see his body.
But two men still lived who had no right to.
Vittorio D'Angelo. My uncle. The man who'd wanted me dead for no other reason than greed, for power he had no right to have. And his pitiful excuse for a son, Vincent, who was too much of a coward to do anything himself but had still laughed when he thought I wouldn't live to recount the story.
I got out of the car, my heels crunching on the gravel. Rocco was beside me, his presence reassuring, rocklike.
"Ready?" he breathed, voice level but edged with something dark.
I turned to him, my lips spreading in a slow, ugly grin. "I was born ready.”
Rafael and Riccardo were already standing at the entrance, their men securing the perimeter, ensuring no one would leave this place alive if we didn't allow it.
Rafael took a drag on his cigarette before discarding it. "They're inside."
"Still thinking they have a chance?" I asked.
Riccardo laughed shortly. "They always do. Until they don't."
Rocco sneered, but there was nothing funny about it. "Let's show them the lesson they should have learned long ago."
And with that, we went into the factory.
The overhead fixtures stuttered faintly, casting long shadows across the stained concrete floor. Vittorio and Vincent were tied to metal chairs in the middle of the room. Their faces had been battered to pulp, mouths cracked and splintered where dried blood curled at the edges.
But still Vittorio—delusional, arrogant—smirks.
"Fiorella," he croaks in a hoarse, mocking tone. "You should be dead."
I moved slowly toward him, heels clicking against the floor in slow, deliberate steps. Then I crouched down to his level, head tilted to one side.
"You ought to have killed me when you had the chance."
Vittorio laughed, but there was something almost like fear underlying it. "Oh, I did try, little flower. You were just too stubborn to die."
My knife was in my hand before he could blink. In one quick, vicious motion, I drove the blade deep into his thigh.
He shrieked, his body bucking against the restraints. Blood surged, soaking his pants, puddling on the floor under his chair.
I turned the knife.
Vittorio's wail tore through the room, raw and primitive.
"The difference between us, uncle," I whispered, leaning in closer, "is that when I want someone dead—I don't fail."
Vincent choked beside him, his eyes wide, chest trembling. "P-please—Fiorella, don't do this!"
Rocco snorted. "You mean like you didn't have to betray her? Or like you didn't have to put a price on her head?"
Vincent's head shook frantically, desperation clawing at every movement. "That wasn't me! That was my father—he gave the orders, I had no choice!"
I pulled the knife out of Vittorio's leg, watching as the blood flowed freely. I rose to my feet, facing Vincent.
"No choice?" I repeated, my voice seething with contempt. "I could have sworn you quite relished my ruin."
I walked toward him, slow and purposeful. He cringed in the chair, his breath coming in frightened gasps.
"You wanted to hurt me," I whispered, dragging the bloodied knife along his cheek. "Now you'll be the one to hurt instead."
I was tossed a gun by Rocco. I caught it with ease, running my fingers along the chilled metal. Then, without hesitation, I raised it and fired—straight into Vincent's knee.
His scream was deafening, echoing throughout the factory.
I knelt down beside him, watching as he writhed in agony. "That was for the bullet you hoped for in my skull."
Vincent cried, shaking uncontrollably.
I stood and turned to Vittorio. His breath came raggedly, his face pale from blood loss, but still his eyes burned with hatred.
"Your finally die tonight," I said matter-of-factly.
His lips moved in what might have been a smile. "Do it."
I raised the gun.
"You'll always be your father's daughter," he sneered. "A killer. A monster."
I smiled. "No, Vittorio. I'm worse."
And then I shot him in the head. Twice.
Blood sprayed on the concrete. Vittorio's body pitched forward, dead.
I turned to Vincent, his breathing ragged, his eyes darting back and forth between his father's body and me.
"Pl-please," he begged.
I exhaled, slow and even. "No."
Then I fired again. One shot to his head.
Vincent's head jerked back, his body slumping limply.
Silence.
I let the gun fall to my side, exhaling as the weight of it all sank into my bones.
It was over.
Bodies were disposed of with haste. The factory was burned, flames eating their way upward toward the sky, eradicating any trace of the men who'd attempted to murder me.
Rocco and I stood outside, the inferno devouring the last remnants of my past.
"It's done," he murmured.
I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders finally relenting. "Yes. It is."
Rafael came up behind us, his expression stoic. "We'll handle whatever's leftover. You two get out of here and go home."
I turned to Rocco, his dark eyes trapping mine.
His fingers brushed against my hand before his intertwined with mine. "Come with me," he murmured. "Stay at the estate."
There was no hesitation. "Okay."
The war was won. And now, it was time to create something new.
The air that night was different. Lighter. As if the burden I had carried for so long had at last been wrenched from my shoulders.
I was standing on the balcony of Rocco's bedroom, overlooking the De Luca estate, the lights of the city twinkling in the distance like tiny stars. The wind brushed against my skin, cool and crisp, its whispers in my ear. For the first time in years, I wasn't planning my next move. I wasn't anticipating another attack, waiting for another betrayal, or watching for another threat to rise up out of the shadows.
It was finished.
For now.
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply.
"Fiorella."
Rocco's voice was soft, soothing, and it returned me to the present. I felt his presence before he even touched me. The heat from his body radiated into my back as he stepped in behind me, his hands coming to rest at my waist.
"You're quiet," he murmured, his mouth grazing the edge of my neck. "Tell me what you're thinking."
I opened my eyes, my hands clutching the cold metal railing. "I don't know," I admitted. "I just… feel different. Lighter. Free."
His grip on me tightened, as if mooring me. "You are free, Fiorella. They're gone. Vittorio. Vincent. Elio. The war is over."
I gazed at him, searching his dark eyes. "For now."
We both knew this world too well to pretend it would ever be truly at peace. Power always came with a price, and no empire was left unstained by blood. But for now—for tonight—I would let myself breathe.
Rocco lifted a hand, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Then we take whatever peace we can get."
I exhaled, tilting into his touch. "I feel like I forgot what peace felt like."
His lips curved a little. "Then let me remind you."
He pulled me into his arms, enveloping me in a warm hug, his heartbeat steady and comforting against my cheek.
Rocco's hand at my waist tightened, pulling me into a flush alignment with his body. His body was hard, warm, his heartbeat strong beneath my hand as I put it on his chest. The cool night air of a moment earlier appeared to vibrate, thicken with something unspoken but undeniable.
His fingers traced slow, lazy circles across my lower back, and when I tipped my head back to look into his eyes, I saw it. The fire. The hunger. The love.
"Fiorella…" he whispered, his voice a rough whisper, a promise and a plea all mixed up in one.
And then his lips were on mine.
The kiss started out slow, almost tentative, but the moment I melted into him, it flared into more. Something desperate. Something possessive.
His hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek as he tipped my head, deepening the kiss. My fingers clenched into his shirt, clinging to him as our bodies drew together. Every press of his lips, every stroke of his tongue, spoke volumes—of passion, of devotion, of the battles we had fought and won.
Rocco kissed me like I was his salvation. Like he'd waited a lifetime for it. And maybe he had.
I exhaled into his mouth as he pushed me back into the railing of the balcony, his hands gentle but possessive. His fingers mapped the curve of my waist, falling down to my hips as he drew me in closer still.
I felt him everywhere. His body heat. The intensity of his need. The way he worshipped me with each touch, each breath.
My hands found their way into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned into my mouth before raining wild kisses along the curve of my jaw, down the curve of my neck. My body shook at the sensation, at the way his lips lingered, teased, savoured.
"Rocco," I whispered, my voice shaking.
He pulled away far enough to look at me, his black eyes burning with something raw and vulnerable.
His mouth crashed down on mine again, hungrier this time, and I gave myself up entirely.
I was his. That's all. And he was mine.