Chapter 92 Fiorella
Rocco's chest rose and fell against me, steady, guarding. His arm pressed down on my waist, his body enclosing me like the protection I never knew I wanted. To anyone else, I was off-limits. But here, in his arms, I could practically believe the falsehood that peace was possible.
Almost.
The shadows don't always come with bullets and blood. Occasionally, they come disguised in paper and pen. And tonight, that hard truth hit me harder than any threat outside our doors.
The letter.
I had pushed it aside weeks before, in the back of my mind . My father's last words to me, written in his own precise, commanding hand. Not words of comfort. Not words of pride. But a clause.
A law that tied the empire I had fought, bled for, to marriage.
If I didn’t wed, if I didn’t secure the D’Angelo name through union, then the board of families would have the right to contest my leadership. It’s such a crazy thing to do but I think he just wanted to see me settle down with someone and also for the family not to tear me apart because some might not still take me serious unless I had a man.
It was law now, blood-sealed and notarized.
On paper, my rule was precarious.
Dependent. Temporary.
Rocco did not know.
He thought this union was ours, one of love. And while it was, I could not bear to tell him that a part of me needed him, not as a lover, but as my shield against losing everything my father had built.
Would he see it as betrayal? Would he think I’d said yes because of duty, not because of the way he made my heart ache and my body burn?
I turned slightly, watching his face in the half-light. The scar near his jaw, the crease between his brows that never truly eased, even in sleep. He looked unshakable. Eternal. Mine.
I pressed my lips to his naked shoulder.
Tomorrow, maybe, I'd share the truth. Maybe.
But tonight, I left the letter tucked away where it was, allowing him to hold me, allowing him to pretend the empire wasn't constructed of ash and signatures.
Because once he knew… there’s a possibility nothing would ever be the same.
Sleep refused to come back to me. My body lay still beside him, but my mind was pacing like a caged predator.
The letter wouldn’t leave me alone. Its words cut sharper now, in the silence of night, than they had the first time I’d read them. Not just the marriage clause, but the others too, the clauses written with a cold precision that only my father could manage.
The insistence upon my name lingered the longest.
I could never drop it. D’Angelo had to stay, tied to every contract, every partnership, every legacy. Even if I was on an altar with Rocco and the world was hailing us as De Luca, on paper and in blood I would remain D’Angelo.
And already I could visualize how his jaw would tighten when he discovered. Rocco was proud, deeply so. He'd never asked me to give up being myself, but marriage for him or any mafia don was uniting, protecting, claiming. To have to tell him that the world would still see me as D’Angelo, it could cause a rupture, even if I didn't want it to.
Would he understand I didn’t choose this, that I didn’t want this. Or would he see it as manipulative, thinking that it was my father’s plan from the start.
I bit my lip, turning the thought over again and again until the taste of iron hit my tongue.
The mattress dipped against me. Rocco rolled over. His arm withdrew, then came back, heavier this time, his palm on my belly as if steadying me against him. His voice came afterward, deep, gravelly, still full of sleep.
"You're awake. Can’t sleep?”
"I'm fine," I whispered quickly.
A stillness. Then a laugh, low and devoid of humor. "Fiorella, you don't do all right. You're scheming, seething, thinking or keeping yourself entertained. Which is it tonight?"
I flashed him a tight smile he couldn't see. "None. Just…awake.".
He shifted, resting on the elbow so that his eyes could trace mine in the darkness. His pressure of focus always disturbed me; he saw too much. His thumb traced my cheekbone, slow and measured. "Something's gnawing at you."
The lie reflex was sharp, honed. Decades of mafia blood had trained me to think that secrets kept me alive. And there was the man I'd agreed to spend forever with, the man who'd fought and bled beside me, looking at me like he'd destroy the world just to make me smile.
And still, I said, "It's nothing I can't handle.".
His jaw muscle clenched. He didn't quite believe me, but he didn't press either. Instead, he wrapped me against his chest, lips on my temple, unspoken vow in the blackness. "Whatever it is, you don't need to handle it alone.".
I let myself slump against him, taking in the scent of smoke and leather and the residual smell of whiskey that clung to his body. My fist was balled on his chest, punching out the hard rhythm of his heart into the palm of my hand.
He held me tighter, as though it could squeeze the truth from me. I longed to tell it to him. God, I did. But the words stayed locked away, penned in the letter, weighing heavier by the second.
His eyes hesitated, mapping my face as though committing me to memory once more. And then, silently, he leaned forward.
The kiss was slow, only the touch of his lips against mine, seducing and not taking. Warmth spread through me, melting all the twisted bands of worry I'd carried throughout the night. I let myself yield, my lips parting, a sigh escaping into him.
Rocco's hand rose up to cradle the back of my head, his thumb stroking my hairline as if I were something beautiful and fragile. The kiss deepened, still slow, but with a threat in it of all we still had to go through.
When he finally pulled back, foreheads touched. His breath was mingled with mine, his voice low but level. "Whatever's on your mind, Fiorella… we'll get through it together."
A sear of pain hit me at the earnestness of it. I kissed him once more, this time soft, only a whisper of lips on lips, and allowed the moment to engulf me before reality forced us back up.
Because secrets in our world didn't bruise, they exploded. And the longer I held on to this one, the bigger the explosion would be when it finally came out.