Chapter 87 Fiorella
The words burned into the screen, dark and calculated, each one laced with venom.
The underworld is not yours, Fiorella. Your uncle, your father, they built it. You'll never sit upon that throne. We'll tear it from your fingers before you ever know power.
I let the glow fade into the blackness of the phone screen, lips curling up in the faintest smile. How many times had men written lines like these, confident their iron was at their fingertips, unaware they were nothing but ash between my fingers?
Rocco lay beside me, the sheet sagging low on his hips, his chest lifting in that steady pace that always made me think that the tempest within me could finally rest. He saw me sitting there, phone clutched in my hand, and shifted up on one elbow. His hair was tousled, his voice thick with sleep.
"What's wrong?"
I held the phone so he could read it himself. His gaze swept over the words, and I watched as his mouth twisted into shape. It was not sneering, but the kind of dark humour a predator records when a smaller beast bares its teeth.
"They really think they'll get to decide who rules?" He laughed , shaking his head. "You killed your uncle yourself, Fiorella. No one gets to tell you what you can or cannot understand."
“I know,” I said, sliding the phone onto the nightstand, my tone as steady as a blade balanced on its edge. “But I almost like it when they try. It shows me where the weak ones are hiding.”
His fingers brushed against mine, his hand closing firm, until I could feel the pressure of his grip. "Let them come, my love. They'll soon learn that this throne won't shake. Not with you on it. Not with me at your side."
I leaned against the warmth of him, the laughter bubbling between us not because the threat was amusing, but because we both knew it was already over.
And then, in the kitchen, he offered to cook breakfast, though I hovered, half-assisting, half-anxiously observing him flip pancakes with too much pride. The smell of butter and sweet batter wafted through the penthouse, clashing with the steel bite of our discussion. It was strange how domesticity and bloodlust could coexist, but that was us.
Fork in hand, sitting at the counter beside me, he told me old stories of he and his brothers mischief.
"Rafael used to sneak me out when we were kids.," Rocco said, smiling at the memory. "We'd steal our dad's cigars, sit on top of the roof, and play like we were men. I coughed so hard one night I thought I was going to die. Rafael said if I ratted him out, he'd shave off my eyebrows in his sleep."
I chuckled, the picture more vivid than any painting. "And did he?"
"He tried," Rocco admitted with a grin. "He got halfway through one before I woke up. I had to walk around with a lopsided eyebrow for weeks. My father caught on the first time and punished us both."
I sipped my coffee, lifting an eyebrow in mock gravity. "That accounts for Rafael's seriousness. He already used up his mischief on you.”
Rocco smiled, walking over the counter to rub his thumb against my cheek. "He'd deny it, but he's softer than he looks. You'd like him more than you know. Riccardo, the baby of the house suffered many pranks, we did a number on him.”
I laughed hearing all the pranks they used to play on each other.
"And you?" I asked, looking at him closely. "Did you ever imagine you'd be here? With me? Talking about crooked eyebrows and pancakes instead of death counts?"
He sat back in his chair, eyes locked, unblinking. "No. I never thought I'd marry. Never thought I'd want to. But you—" He massaged his temples, as if even he couldn't unravel the turn of it. "You came in like a blade through bone. And now waking up without you doesn't make sense. I want it all, Fiorella. Even the quiet mornings. Especially the quiet mornings."
That warmed me up better than any sun ever could. I allowed his words to sink into my chest.
We ate, we talked, and when there was silence, it wasn't suffocating, it was safe. The danger still sat upon the nightstand, waiting like a shadow , but it didn't matter. Whoever thought they might steal my crown from me hadn't yet learned: I was forged of blood, I’ve tasted betrayal, and now, for the very first time, I had one who would bleed alongside me, not against.
And so I was untouchable
.
The curtains were half-open, soft light spilling in over the penthouse living room, infusing everything with a golden haze. Rocco had flung the blanket off the bed and thrown it over the couch, pulling me down with him as if he'd rather be anywhere but here. The television flickered with a romantic comedy he’d chosen, his excuse had been, “We should study how normal people fall in love, maybe we’ll learn something.”
I rolled my eyes at that but, in all seriousness, I adored it. It was normal. Normal was something that I'd never been allowed before. Now, resting against him, legs wrapped around each other, a bowl of popcorn precariously poised between us, I felt as though maybe, just maybe, I was allowed to have this.
“Why does he always rush to the airport?" Rocco asked, mouth full of popcorn, finger pointing at the screen as the hero rushed through traffic. "He's behind schedule. The plane's already left. Nobody's ever on time for those sorts of things."
I laughed, bumping my shoulder against his. "Because it's dramatic. He has to meet her before she leaves, or there's no happy ending.".
"Always another plane," he scoffed, smiling. "He could just take out a ticket and follow behind her."
"That spoils the magic of it," I teased, snagging a handful of popcorn before he could. "Also, maybe she would not want him to follow behind."
He cocked an eyebrow at me, spark of mischief dancing in those steel-grey eyes. "If you tried to run away, Fiorella, I would not let you on that plane. I would not even stop at traffic lights."
I tilted my head, feigning thought. "I might want to see you try it."
He stepped closer, voice falling to that husky, even cadence that made my stomach flop every time. "Amore, if you think you can run from me now, after you agreed to forever, you don't know me at all."
The words cascaded over me like a promise, strong and unshakeable, and I choked back the burning rising in my throat. To conceal it, I launched a grain of popcorn at him. It bounced off his chest, and he laughed, rich and unrehearsed, before holding me more securely to him.
The movie went on in the background, on-screen lovers at last declaring their love in a whirlwind of words and tears. I felt Rocco's eyes on me more than I actually saw the movie.
"What?" I insisted, feigning annoyance, though my lips already gave me away.
He shrugged, though there was something almost boyish in the curl of his lips. "Just thinking. What do you want our wedding to be like?"
The question surprised me. I stared at him, shocked, because despite the proposal, despite the acceptance, it hadn't seemed real until now.
"I don't know," I confessed softly. "I never thought I'd have one. A wedding. A husband. My father taught me to inherit an empire, not walk in white."
Rocco’s gaze softened. He shifted, setting the popcorn bowl aside and pulling me fully into his lap. His hand traced idle circles against my back. “Well, imagine it now. Forget tradition. Forget expectations. Just tell me what you’d want.”
I released my eyelids, letting the images unfold. "I'd make it small. Not a thousand mouths speaking of our strength. Just the ones who need to hear. I'd have candles all around. Flowers, red roses, lilies maybe. Something that will smell like… us. Not too sweet. Not too icy either."
He listened, expression passive but intent, as if he were memorising each word.
"And you?" I asked, tilting my head to watch him.
He tucked a curl of hair back from my face, his fingers remaining. "Neither did I. But now? I see you in white at the end of the aisle, and I cannot envision anything else. Doesn't matter if it's in a church, on the beach, or in this same room. As long as you're there."
My chest tightened at that, a searing heat radiating inside me. I pressed my forehead against his, whispering, "You're going to make me cry."
He laughed, kissing the corner of my mouth before taking it fully, slow and deliberate, the type of kiss that stretched time thin.
When we parted, the credits of the movie were scrolling along, and I couldn't help but giggle. "We didn't even see the end."
“We don’t need their ending,” he murmured against my lips. “We’re writing our own.”
And there, curled up under a blanket, popcorn forgotten, his arms heavy and warm around me, I understood that for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of what the future held. It gave me this desire to have a family of my own and I won't let anyone take it from me no matter who they are.