Chapter 95 Rocco
The city glows beneath the penthouse balcony, liquid gold over the horizon. I hear the far-off hum of traffic and the stifled clinking of dishes from the kitchen where I sit, coat thrown over my chair. Fiorella's shadow moves through the golden illumination, slick, effortless, like the rhythm of a song I never get tired of.
Another day spent running family business, meetings, phone calls, threats defused with the usual skill. But the moment I stepped into the apartment , all of it was forgotten. I'd been starved for this, her.
She's serving pasta, steam curling around her head in a halo. "You didn't have to cook," I say, leaning on the counter.
"I wanted to." Her voice is cheerful, but it is tight beneath. I see it in a flash, how she doesn't glance at me right away, how her movements are deliberate, planned.
I move around behind her, wrap my hand around to her waist, and kiss the side of her neck. "If this is how you greet me at home every evening, I'll get myself into all sorts of trouble just so that I can return sooner."
She smiles softly, and the laughter is gentle, but barely audible. I sense her smile, but it doesn't quite extend to her eyes.
We eat our dinner at the kitchen counter, plates between us, smiles repressed but true. She talks about the house renovations, a new shipment that came to the estate, Leo being serious once more. I listen, but I see her more than I hear her. There is something in the way she absent-mindedly stirs the pasta, her mind clearly somewhere else.
When I stroke her hand, she tenses and relaxes, settling again. "You're miles away," I whisper.
She looks at me, lashes lowered, lips curving infinitesimally. "Just tired."
It's a lie I don't contradict. Not yet.
Instead, I grab her plate, place it aside, and pull her into my lap. She does not struggle. Her gentle gasp shatters against my chest as I burrow into the space behind her ears, inhaling lavender and the scent of weak smoke. My hand trails upward along her back, slow and cautious. "Whatever it is," I whisper against her skin, "you can tell me, Fiorella."
Her head tips, lips brushing against my jaw. "I know."
But she doesn't. Not tonight.
I can feel the tension in her shoulders, the way her heart beats just a little too fast. She’s keeping something from me, and it’s eating at her. Yet, in the same breath, she’s here, curled up in my arms, fingers tracing the faint scars on my wrist like they calm her.
The silence between us grows heavy, but not cold. It’s intimate. It’s filled with everything we’re not saying.
"Has Rosalia been updating you about the engagement party?” whisper into her hair. "It’s this weekend ."
Fiorella chuckles quietly. "Yeah, she has been updating me ."
“Good."
Her gaze comes to mine, a flicker of something impenetrable in them, guilt? Terror? It's gone before I can recognize it.
"Do you think we're going to even have a quiet wedding?" she jokes, attempting to change the subject.
"Not a chance," I smile. "But I promise the noise will stop when it's only you and me."
That gets a genuine smile, short, delicate, lovely.
I kiss her . Slow, soft, a promise muttered between breaths. Her hands clench on my shirt, pulling me close, and for a moment, I feel her melt. No walls. No secrets. Just us.
When we step back, she has her forehead resting on mine, eyes closed. "You make me forget everything when you do that," she whispers.
"Good," I whisper back. "That's the point."
Fiorella kisses me again, deeper this time, like she’s trying to drown that same unease before it reaches the surface.
I let her.
Because tonight, I’ll give her peace. But tomorrow… I’ll find out what she’s hiding.
———
The morning arrives slowly and laboriously next, sunlight filtering in through the blinds unwillingly to disturb me. The sheets retain the smell of Fiorella on them, warm, female, the scent of jasmine and smoke. I reach out for her instinctively, but her side of the bed is cold.
She rose early. Again.
It's not surprising, she's got an empire to run, and I understand that. But recently… recently there's been something different in the way she walks, the way her voice breaks before she responds, the way her smile doesn't always make it to her eyes. Small things. The sort of things that only a man who's fully gone for her would pick up on.
And I am. Fully gone.
By the time I’m in my office later that morning, I’ve gone through two meetings, signed off on a new security contract, and still can’t shake the image of her staring into nothing last night, fingers tapping lightly against her wine glass. Something’s off.
When Rafael calls, I answer, give him the routine news, exchange some joke regarding Rosalia's wedding-party obsession. But when the line goes dead, and I'm sitting alone once more, the unease returns.
I lean back in my chair, staring out at the skyline through the stained glass. I shouldn't call Leo. I know that Fiorella would hate that. She's all about taking care of things, especially in her business. But the thought of her facing something alone doesn't sit right with me.
So I do it anyway.
The phone beeps when two rings have sounded. "Boss," a deep, level voice, the voice that always, somehow, sounds like he's standing watch.
"Leo." I try to sound relaxed, but there's a subtext of steel. "Everything all right down there?"
"Yes, sir. Quiet morning."
"Fine. And Fiorella? She's fine?"
A moment of silence hangs too long, too long for me to be comfortable.
“She’s fine,” he finally says. “Focused. We’ve been going through the last of the estate’s records and coordinating with a few families that haven’t settled in yet.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “And there haven’t been any more threats? Messages, unwanted visits, anything that might bother her?”
“No, sir. Nothing new since last week. Why?”
I drum my fingers against the desk, staring blankly at the faint reflection of my own face in the window. "Because something's changed, Leo."
He releases a soft breath, the sort that suggests he's proceeding with caution. "Fiorella does what she wants, Rocco. You know that as well as anyone. If there was an issue, she'd handle it."
"Yeah," I growl, grinding my jaw. "That's what I'm worried about."
There is a moment of quiet before he speaks softly, "Maybe she's just tired."
"Okay," I say finally, letting out a breath.
The line is dead, and I just sit there for a minute, staring at the phone as if it's going to suddenly speak and tell me what I'm missing.
I do trust Fiorella. God, I do. But trust isn't blindness. I can feel her walls rising, the same ones she broke down for me piece by piece in the last year.
She's angry about something.
Maybe it's work. Maybe something in her father's will. Or maybe.
I shut my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, and will the thought not to sink in too far.
Maybe it's me.
Maybe she's having second thoughts about all of this, about the engagement, the future, us.
The idea hits me harder than I expect, landing like a brick in my chest. I try to shake it off, but it clings to me, stubborn and bitter.
I look down at my phone again, thumb hovering over her contact name. I could call. Ask her outright. But she'd probably just assure me that everything is fine once more, the same way she did last night after cuddling into me and kissing me softly enough to make me forget my own name.
I slowly exhale, leaning against the back of my chair.
Fine. One more day.
I'll ask her once more.
And if there's something she's keeping back, something she doesn't want to share with me…