Chapter 90 Fiorella
The garden below was laid out and tended, the roses my father had planted several years back nodding gently in the evening wind. I leaned against the balcony railing, the metal cool and digging into my palms as I looked down over the lands that had been mine to protect, mine to rule, long before I was ready. The house was imprinted with his presence everywhere, even now, months after his death. His voice could still be heard in these walls, in the way the staff carried themselves, in the whispers of old men in the town who had served him. And yet, he was no more.
It was not supposed to be this way. My father was meant to grow old here, preside over my wedding table, glass held high in a toast, eyes gleaming with pride. He was meant to tease me about finally being caught by someone, walk me down an aisle not drenched in blood but in blossoms. Instead, he had been gone too early, ripped from my life by treachery, and now the stillness of his absence was heavier than the evening air.
A part of me still needed to share everything with him, that Rocco had asked for my hand, that I had accepted without a moment's pause, that despite all the shadows that were a part of our world, I had found something close to peace in his arms. The irony was not lost on me. It started with him, with a meeting my father arranged, one he told me was nothing more than a discourse on security and alliances. He had looked at me that night with the weight of a man plotting for a future outside of his own years. Who would have thought that the second De Luca son, impassive in his dark intensity, would be the one I'd one day promise forever to?
The irony bit, but it also comforted me. My father must have known something, perhaps. Maybe he had known, as fathers sometimes do, that I would need someone who could stand beside me when my world had burned to ash and blood.
I breathed slowly, tilting my head back to the stars. The stars twinkled faintly through the city pollution. My heart ached that he would never know. Never witness me in a dress that wasn't bloodied. Never witness me smile not in victory but in love. I whispered into the darkness, softly enough that only the wind could carry it, "I hope you can see me, Papa. I hope you are proud."
Behind me, the estate pulsed with life. It was mine now. My father's kingdom, transferred into my hands. I had killed to keep it. I had spilled family blood to protect it. And I would do it again if anyone tried to take it from me.
But tonight… tonight I allowed myself to think about kinder things. About Rocco's hands on mine as he pushed the ring onto my finger. About how his eyes softened in private, when the weight of his family name and his responsibilities dropped away, and it was just us.
I traced my fingers across the diamond now, its chilly surface mirroring the lantern light. A symbol, not of protection, since we both knew the mafia world would never provide us with that, but of rebellion. Of seeking love despite it all.
My father would never give me away, but I would have his teachings to take with me. Strength, ruthlessness, and the unshakeable belief that no one would ever possess me. Rocco didn't possess me. He stood with me. And maybe that was why this felt so different. So liberating.
I closed my eyes, a tiny smile tugging at my lips despite the heaviness in my chest. He had died too soon, yes. But I would live long enough for both of us. I would carry the De Angelo’s name into my marriage, into my reign, into my life with Rocco. And anyone who dared to challenge that would find, like my uncle and cousin had, that I had inherited not only my father's throne, but his fire.
The shadows deepened, the stars spread out further. I placed my hand on the railing, straightening up. I missed him. Oh God, I missed him. But I wasn't broken. I wasn't alone.
Tomorrow would bring war or peace. But tonight, I had my memories, my father's ghost, and the promise of a future I never thought I'd want.
And that was enough.
The knock on the balcony doors was firm, not tentative. Only one man in my entire household moved like that—Leo. My second-in-command. My father's former top soldier, and now mine.
I did not turn initially. I let the night air lie against my flesh for a while longer, collecting myself, before I replied, "Enter."
The door creaked open, and his boots rang out loud on the tile floor. Leo walked with a presence that filled a room, a man carved by war and loyalty, dark hair graying at the temples in testament to wars fought in silence. By the time I finally turned , he was standing upright, shoulders squared, face carved from granite. He didn't waste greetings. He never did.
"There's movement," he stated, his low tone cutting through the silence. "Some of the older families are resisting the transfer of power. They whisper that the De Angelos bloodline is weakened without your father. They question your… methods." His gaze flickered briefly, as if gauging my reaction.
I met his stare straight, my tone firm with an edge of steel. "Let them whisper. My uncle whispered too, and he's rotting in the ground."
For a brief moment, a flicker of respect passed over his rough features, but his jaw was still tense. "It's not whispers, Fiorella. There are whispered meetings taking place already. Men who once bent knee to your father are trying to see how far they can bow now. Testing you."
I turned full circle then, backing into the railing, arms crossed over my chest. The shadows from the lanterns of the estate outlined the scar on Leo's cheek, a testament to the cost of loyalty to this family. "And what do you suggest? That I bow? That I beg for their loyalty?"
His lips curled, as near to a smile as he ever got. "I suggest you make them remember why your name is not just a mere one."
There was a silence between us, heavy, apart from the wind and the far thrum of crickets in the gardens below. He was right. They needed to see the fire, the savagery, the self-assurance that made me my father's daughter.
But I composing myself before speaking, smoothing my hands down the front of my silk robe, the engagement ring glinting again. "There's something else you ought to know, Leo."
His eyes narrowed at once. "What is it?
I held that stare, my voice measured. "I received a message this morning. Unknown number. They weren't subtle." I let the silence hang before I continued. "They said I'll never be allowed to rule the underworld that was my father's. My uncle's. That my claim will always be null.".
Leo's shoulders tightened, his nostrils flaring as his eyes hardened. He took one step closer, his voice low and threatening. "They threaten you in particular?"
"They do," I answered evenly, though inside I was experiencing the faintest turn of satisfaction at how little fear the message had been able to inspire. I raised my chin higher. "And they underestimate me already. A mistake that will be extremely expensive to them."
For a moment, Leo's face cracked, just slightly, as if he was caught between humour nd raging fury. "Then they're fools or know something we don't."
"Or both," I said, circling him slowly, my robe dragging on the floor behind me like the train of a monarch's gown. "But they'll figure it out quick. The world doesn't get to decide if I rule. I already do."
His eyes followed me, assessing. "Want me to trace the number?"
"Yes. Discreetly. Whoever is trying to intimidate me thinks shadows conceal them. They don't."
Leo nodded tersely, his voice heavy with promise. "I'll see to it. And Fiorella—" He hesitated, not like him. "Don't go soft on this. Whoever this individual is, they chose their words to provoke. They'll strike harder next time."
I stopped in front of him, lifting my chin in mute defiance. "Let them strike. I've lost loved ones, Leo. You think some nameless craven in the dark will scare me?"
He regarded me another moment, then nodded slightly, not deference, never that, but acceptance. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, I caught his arm. "Keep me posted on the families working against us. Let them think I'm quiet for now. When I move, they'll know silence was just the calm before the storm."
There was a gleam of something evil in his eyes. "As you wish, Donna Fiorella."
The title hung in the air between us, heavy, justifiably. The night was different when he left, charged, alive with the threat of a war I did not fear. They thought I was not suited to rule. That my father's passing was the end of our bloodline's dynasty.
Let them come.
I toyed with the ring on my finger, a ghost of a smile on my lips as I thought about Rocco. Let them come with their shadows, their knives, their whispers. I'd already suffered worse. And this time, I wasn't alone.