Chapter 98 Fiorella
The estate was unusually quiet that night. The kind of quiet that pressed against the walls and made every tick of the clock sound heavier. The garden lights outside filtered through the tall windows, scattering faint gold across the marble floor. I’d had the table set, candles, two plates, a bottle of wine I’d opened but hadn’t yet touched. Dinner had been set before Rocco’s car finally pulled through the gates.
I could hear the noise of his engine before I could see him. Every sound that came from him was distinctive, the measured thump of the car door being closed, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the marble, firm and purposeful. Normally, that sound was comforting. Tonight, it was not.
My heart would not stop pounding.
When he stood in the doorway, he appeared to be the very embodiment of control , his jaw set, shoulders thrown back, his tie loose but his eyes impenetrable. The very tension on his face told me a thousand things I already knew.
"Rough day?" I tried, trying to sound nonchalant, as if my stomach hadn't been knotted with terror.
"Not worse than yours, I suppose," he replied, his voice very quiet, too quiet.
He crossed the room slowly, like he was giving me a chance to start speaking before he did. He didn’t sit. He didn’t touch the food. His eyes were on me, sharp and deliberate.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said finally.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Clearly.”
The quiet hung between us once more. The candles danced, casting shadows over his face, slicing his features into something hard and beautiful and impossibly far away.
I knew he was waiting for me to clarify. And a part of me wanted to wait , to have him say something first, to gauge how much he knew. But that wasn't what love was meant to be. Not ours.
"I was going to tell you," I breathed.
He raised an eyebrow. "Tell me what, Fiorella?"
The manner in which he uttered my name , controlled, patient, dangerously restrained , changed the atmosphere between us.
"It's about the will of my father," I said, my throat tightening. "There is a clause… conditions for my inheritance."
He sat in silence, simply nodding his head, waiting.
“My father left one stipulation that I am unable to change my name," I went on. "If I do, everything that he built, the D'Angelo properties, the holdings, the dominance , it all passes to the state. All of his work is gone.".
Rocco's expression didn't change. He was one of those men who'd learned to hide every twitch of reaction. But I saw it, the exasperated sigh that was threatening to escape.
"How long have you known?"
"Since a few days after the proposal."
His eyes flashed hot. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I wanted to," I gasped. "I just didn't know how.".
He laughed, although it was not friendly. It was that tense, humorless laugh that heralded something breaking. "You didn't know how? Fiorella, you've ruled empires. You've gazed upon men who coveted your head on a silver platter and didn't have any clue how to tell me something as simple as this.”
"It's not that simple, Rocco!"
He stopped short.
"It's my father's legacy," I stated, taking a step forward, voice trembling now. "All the things he built, all the things he died for, they're all tied to that name. If I lose it, I lose everything he left behind. The D'Angelo name is what keeps the wolves from tearing apart that which is mine. I didn't want to lose it. I didn't want to lose you either."
For a moment, he simply stared at me, like he was trying to decide which part of that sentence hurt him the most.
"Your uncle told me," he continued, speaking low.
My stomach dropped. "Phillipe?"
He nodded. "He called me a while ago. Said he thought I should know what sort of 'arrangement' I was getting myself into. He was literally begging me not to marry you.".
"I didn't think he was serious," he continued, still avoiding looking at me. "But I called Rafael, had one of our men verify it. And there it was, the clause, in black and white."
"Rocco—“
"I don't give a damn about the name," he said, turning to face me. "You can be Fiorella D'Angelo, De Luca, or both and I don't care. What makes me angry is that you didn't trust me enough to tell me. That you let me hear it from someone who doesn't even have the right to speak your name."
I curled my fists. Phillipe would have to come in and step on the tail. He'd always been the snake in the grass, pretending to be a servant while sharpening his fangs.
"I was going to say it myself," I said. "Tonight. That's why I set the dinner table. I just—"
"Didn't quite get to it in time," he said gently.
"Please," I moved a step closer, "don't make this a question of trust—"
"This is a question of trust."
His voice wasn't loud, but it was strong enough to make the air seem thinner.
"I don't care about the last name you take," he went on. "I don't care what the papers say. But what I will not tolerate is to be blindsided by a person who vowed to make our future together. You kept this from me, Fiorella. It wasn’t a day or two. I asked you severally if everything was okay, told you countless times that you didn’t have to face anything alone and for the littlest thing you decide to keep it away from me and worse make me find out from someone else.”
His words weren't mean, they were low-key, measured, and somehow more hurtful.
"I was going to tell you I swear. I just feared how you would react to it and I didn't want to destroy what we have," I panted.
He exhaled a hard breath, rubbing a hand over his face. "If you think something like that is able to shake us, then perhaps what we have isn't as strong as I believed."
I stopped. The words were like a knife, stabbing and deliberate.
He pulled away then, to the window, where city lights shone through the panes. We didn't move for a moment. The silence hung heavy.
"I wasn't trying to keep it from you," I finally spoke, my voice gentler now, worn around the edges. "I was just going to wait until the right time. I thought you would doubt my intentions for marrying you. I was scared to face that. I’m sorry.”
I could feel my eyes glistening with tears. I don’t want to loose him too.
Oh God.
Why didn’t I tell him sooner?
“I’m sorry Rocco, I should have told you as soon as I knew. I didn’t want it to matter.”
"It matters to me," he said, turning back to me. “ Everything that has to do with you matters to me."
Something was sharp in his eyes now, pain entwined with anger. Not the fury of a wronged man, but the disappointment of one who'd believed too much.
I took a deep breath, stepping forward until I stood close enough to feel the heat of him. "Then let me make it right."
He looked at me for a long time before he reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair away from my face. His hand trembled, ever so slightly, when his fingers touched my skin. "Don't ever let me hear something about you from someone else first," he said, his voice barely above a breath. "Not your family.Not your enemies. Not your friends. You."
"I won't."
I meant it. But the damage was already done.
He leaned forward, his brow to my forehead, his hot breath on my mouth. "I never want to doubt you, Fiorella."
"I promise you, I won’t give you another reason to.” I panted.
His hand fell to the back of my neck, and he drew me into a soft kiss, it hurt, it was desperate, a prayer to hold on together despite the rift between us. My hands crept up over his shirt, clinging to him like I could anchor him there, keep the gap from widening.
When finally he pulled back, his eyes fell on me, full of something I could not decipher.
“ I need to clear my head," he'd told me in a barely audible whisper.
"Rocco—"
"I'm not leaving you," he said, his tone softer than I'd ever heard. “I just need air somewhere not here.”
I nodded, my throat tight. I didn't attempt to hold him back when he stepped away. I didn't try to call out to him when he left the room. The door shutting had been louder than I expected.
When the silence returned, I just stayed there under the glow of the candles, gazing at the plates of untasted food. The candles were burning low now, casting a faint glow against the silverware. I sat at the table, offering my hand for my wine, but my hand was shaking too much to lift the glass.
I'd spent years building walls to keep others out. Every step, every calculated decision had been about survival, about never having to need anyone too much. But I needed him. I wanted him and I wanted to cry because I was starting to think that I might loose him and how silly it was of me to keep it away from him.
I know I should have told him sooner. Maybe I had misjudged how far trust extended in a man like Rocco De Luca, how angry he would be to keep something, anything, from him. But despite it all, he didn’t raise his voice at me, if anything he spoke gently and softly despite him being mad as hell and I respect that.
The candles flickered out, one at a time, and I sat there afterwards, tracing my finger around the rim of my wine glass.
I rested my head against the back of my chair, eyes closed. For the first time, doubt crept in. Not him, us. Me.
Can I really do this marriage thing?
Can I let him in fully?
Because if this was what one tiny secret could yield, what would the next hurricane bring?
What if the love we'd fought so long for wasn't powerful enough to withstand the world we lived in?
And worse, what if I’d just handed our enemies the first crack in our armor?