Chapter 97 Rocco
The club thrummed with low bass and slurred conversation, but it never penetrated. Not a bit. I was up on the second floor, over the top floor, peering down through the smoked glass, hands stuck in pockets, watching bodies move to the rhythm below. Whiskey, smoke, and a subtle perfume lingered in the air.
It was business as usual, De Luca business. Our club was a cover for half the transactions that kept this city in our control. And tonight, I wasn't focused. My mind kept drifting back to her. To Fiorella.
She hadn't been herself in quite some time. There was something in her voice, her pause between words, her repressed eyes when she thought I wasn't looking. Like a storm was gathering within her that she didn't want me to see.
And it was driving me madder than ever.
"Boss," Nico's voice brought me back. "The Palermo shipment came in. All there."
I nodded, gaze still distant. "Good. Get it transported tonight. No shenanigans."
"Understood." He hesitated, his eyes on me. "You all right, Rocco? You look off."
“When am I never not.” I joked.
He half-laughed quietly and backed away, allowing me to my daydreaming. I rested against the railing, rotating the glass of bourbon between palms. The alcohol reflected the thin light, golden and motionless, like introduction to inescapable.
I reached into my pocket and drew out my phone, thumb tracing over Fiorella's name on the screen. I'd already called her. No reply. I told myself she was just busy, but that gnawing ache in my chest didn't agree.
My brothers would have laughed at me if they see me like this —Rocco De Luca, the hard one, the one who never allowed feelings to dictate his actions, now walking back and forth over a woman. But Fiorella was not any woman. She was a firecracker, something that resonated with my own darkness and soothed it at the same time.
The phone in my hand jolted me out of my distraction.
Unknown Number.
I glared, wary. I got dozens of calls from strangers a week, some from acquaintances, some from idiots who hadn't lived long enough to place a second one. But there was something about this number, something raw and wrong, that made me answer.
All of a sudden I remembered Rafael’s attacker.
"Rocco De Luca," I growled.
Low, measured laughter sounded over the phone. Male. Smooth. Calculating.
"Ah. The man of the hour himself. Congratulations on your engagement, Rocco."
My grip on the glass tightened slightly. “Who is this?”
“Oh, come now,” the voice purred. “Don’t tell me Fiorella hasn’t mentioned her dear uncle. Phillipe D’Angelo. Surely you’ve heard of me.”
My jaw flexed. “I’ve heard the name.”
"Good. Spares me an introduction." He stopped, voice as smooth as silk but carrying the underlying tone that made me shiver. "You're quite the buzz in our circles these days. The De Luca’s enforcer and the D’Angelo queen marrying. A match made in heaven, no?"
I didn't respond. My silence was enough.
"I see she hasn't told you yet," he continued after a moment, thick with false sympathy. "About the letter."
My heart slowed. All my instincts razor-sharp. "What letter?"
"Oh," he said, his voice low and husky, as if savoring the words, "so she hasn't. How… interesting."
The club around us receded to silence. The thumping of the bass, the clinking of glasses, even my own breathing, muffled until all I could hear was his voice and the slow build of tension curling beneath my skin.
"What letter?" I asked again, my voice now lower, deadly.
He laughed, soft but mocking. "You don't know. Poor Rocco. So naive. So in love. She's a smart one, my niece. Always was."
I remained quiet, drawing out the silence. Men like Phillipe couldn't help but fill silence,they dreaded it.
And just in time, he continued, "Your fiancée received a letter from the attorney who represented her recently deceased father. Some… interesting stipulations, if you will? One caught my eye. It seems her inheritance, her shares in the D'Angelo holdings, remains conditional on her not relinquishing her last name, post wedding."
My teeth ground. "Go on.".
"Oh, it's absurd , don't you think?" he went on, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "She gets to keep her power, her legacy. And you, well… you get to be the dutiful husband while your wife remains the queen bee of her father's kingdom. Nice arrangement."
I set my drink down on the counter with a gentle clinking, my other hand curling into a fist at my side.
“She. She hasn't said a word, has she?" he asked, his tone low, almost satisfied. "Did she smile when she accepted your proposal . Did you know this was in her back pocket? That she didn't mean to share the throne, just attach your name to hers for the sake of convenience?"
She kept this away from me.
I disliked that.
"I don't know what you think you're doing," I replied calmly. "But if you're attempting to create a rift between us, you're wasting your time."
"Am I?" Phillipe’s tone hardened, amusement dissipating into something more sinister. "You believe she's been honest with you? Rocco, you are a smart man. Look closer. Women like Fiorella don't give up control so easily. You think she's yours, but she's her father's daughter, through and through. She plays every hand with intent."
I could hear the gentle click of his lighter opening. Once. Twice. "Do yourself a favor. Don't marry her. Not yet. Not until you know every secret she's keeping from you. Because trust me, the letter isn't the only one."
I remained silent long enough for him to think that I had hung up. My heart was normal now, but my mind was already running over each word, every stumble she'd been making lately, every moment when I'd caught her just sitting there staring off into space as if lost in thought.
"Are you done?" I finally asked.
"For the time being," he said to me, the smirk sounding. "But you should thank me, really. I'm rescuing you from making a big mistake—trusting a D'Angelo woman."
I didn't give it the respect of an answer. I hung up, and there was only the hum of the bass underneath and the heavy silence in my chest.
I stared at the screen, his number not saved but his words staying contaminating the corners of my brain.
The letter.
I swallowed hard, shaking my head . I didn't want to believe it. I wouldn't believe it. Fiorella wasn't like them. She wasn't her father, or her uncle, or anyone who'd played this sick game of power. She was fire and loyalty and quiet strength.
And yet…
My head snapped back to the look on her face this morning, the smile she'd given me, soft but distracted, as though something was holding her down. The way she'd told me "everything's fine" when I'd known that it wasn't.
She was keeping a secret from me.
That knowledge burned through me like acid. Not for the secrecy itself, but because she hadn't trusted me with it.
"Boss?" My voice again came from behind me, defensive. "You okay?"
I turned to him, the mask securely in place. "Fine."
He stared at me in confusion. "You sure? You look like you've just been given bad news."
"Just business," I growled, shoving my phone into my pocket. "Always business."
But when I left the top floor and outside into the fresher night air, I realized it was anything but business.
The city lay out before me, living and agitated, the skyline rough and yellow. I took a deep breath, my hand going into my jacket for a cigarette but not igniting it.
She hasn't told you, has she?
I hated that his words were even in my head. I hated that part of me doubted what else she could be hiding from me.
But I wasn't the kind of man to easily distrust. If Fiorella had a secret, there was a reason. There was always a reason. But I needed to hear it from her.
No more waiting. No more gentle edges.
I'd go home tonight and ask her point-blank. If she trusted me, she'd tell me.
If not, she will lie to me again.
If that happens, we had a problem greater than any name, any letter, or any legacy.
Because if she was lying to me, if she was already keeping secrets and there were more skeletons in her cupboard.
I didn't know if I could see this through.