Chapter 3

Rocco

The scent of coffee and freshly baked bread hung in the air, along with something sugary, most likely what Rosalia had insisted the chef make. I was seated at the oversized dining table, watching as Rafael poured his wife's coffee as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

It still surprised me.

My brother, the same one who shot a man in the head without batting an eye, was now the kind of husband who poured coffee for his wife before serving himself.

Rosalia smiled and said something to him that I didn't quite catch, and Rafael responded by leaving a kiss on her temple.

Gross.

"You're making that face again," Riccardo told me, smiling as he picked up a piece of bread.

"What face?" I grumbled.

"The one where you appear to have swallowed glass."

"Maybe I did."

Riccardo smiled, shaking his head, but Rafael was blind to us, all focus on his wife.

"Do you need something more, mia rosa?" he asked her, voice lower than I ever recalled hearing before.

Rosalia glanced up at him, smiling gently in a way that wrapped my stomach in a knot. "No, I'm fine. But you should eat before your meeting."

"I will." He brushed a lock of hair out of her face. "You should return to bed after breakfast. You were up too late last night."

Rosalia flushed a little, glancing over at Riccardo and me. "Rafael..."

"What?" He smiled. "It's the truth."

Riccardo gagged, stuffing bread into his mouth.

I just sipped my coffee.

This was one version of my brother I was still not used to.

The Rafael I had grown up with was cold, calculating, a man who ruled with strategy and violence. The Rafael across from me now was still ruthless, still deadly, but he had softened around the edges.

Because of her.

And the craziest part?

He didn't seem to care.

"Anyway," Rafael said, finally focusing on me, "we have business to discuss."

I set down my coffee. "I figured."

"Tonight, you're meeting with Alessandro D'Angelo's daughter."

That made me curious.

I rocked back in my chair, eyebrow rising. "Fiorella?"

"Yes."

I knew the name. Everybody did.

Fiorella D'Angelo wasn't like other mafia girls. She wasn't a prize, a negotiating pawn, or a bride to be wed off for politics. She was her father's heiress, his only child of one of the most powerful men of the underworld.

I'd never met her, but rumour had described her vividly enough.

Cold. Ruthless. Intelligent.

A woman who not only sat at the table, she ran it.

"What does she want?" I demanded.

"An alliance."

I grinned. "Of course she does."

Rafael didn't bat an eyelid, just drank his coffee. "Her father sees what's coming. He knows war is inevitable, and he doesn't want to be on the losing side when it happens."

"Clever fellow," Riccardo growled.

"And what do you want me to do?" I asked Rafael.

"Get to know her. Check out what she can do for us." He pinned my gaze, voice authoritative. "Take the offer if it benefits us. If not..."

He shrugged.

I picked up the unstated one. If it wasn't going to be worth it, we went.

Or burned the bridge down.

"Okay," I said, grabbing my drink.

Rafael nodded, but Rosalia was scrutinising me closely.

"What?" I asked her.

"Nothing." She smiled, a little. "I just wonder if you're underestimating her."

"I don't underestimate anyone."

"Good." She sipped her coffee. "Because she's not like other women you've met."

That much, I already knew.

The question was whether or not she'd live up to the hype, or if she'd be a letdown.

Because in my world, reputations rarely panned out that way.

The club was only dimly lit, the air thick with the reek of alcohol and despair.

It was the kind where handshakes sealed deals and were broken by gunfire.

I sat in the quiet booth, whiskey in front of me, back to the wall.

I waited.

For her.

Fiorella D'Angelo.

The so-called queen of her father's empire.

I'd spent the day wondering whether she'd be even remotely the woman people described. The mafia had a reputation for exaggeration, making men monsters, women mythical legends that people couldn't even touch.

Most of the time, that's just what they were, exaggerated tales.

And then she opened the door.

And I discovered—for once—perhaps the legends would be too little.

She walked along as if she owned the joint, each step calculated, each inch of posture exuding confidence. Black clothes, pulled-back hair, she was sharp enough to cut.

Eyes followed her leave.

Men stared.

She didn't even give them a look.

I lifted an eyebrow. Interesting.

I walked up to her to introduce myself.

"De Luca."

My fingers closed around the glass of whiskey I hadn't consumed. "D'Angelo."

"You're smaller than I thought." I told her, she was likely 5'7 and petite next to my 6'3 body.

"You're just as annoying as I expected."

My smile widened a bit more. "I like a woman with bite."

She scowled at me. "And I like men who don't waste my time."

Up close, she was even more beautiful. Beautiful, but in a way that wasn't delicate. Her face was hard, her expression unreadable.

She wasn't here to make an impression.

She was here to negotiate.

"Shall we do business?" She inquired.

I leaned back, sipping my whiskey. "In a hurry?"

"Not at all," I replied, but there was a glint in my eyes. "I just prefer to skip the small talk."

I smiled. "Pity. I hoped so."

"Your father seems to think we can work together," I thought. "What do you think?"

"A pact works for us both," she continued. "The war that's coming isn't between little families alone, it will catch on. The smart ones are already choosing sides."

"And you want to be with ours?"

"I want us to be on the same team ."

I watched her. She wasn't mistaken. The tension in our world was escalating. The families that failed to make the right choice would be buried.

"And what do you have to trade?" I demanded.

"Resources. Connections. Power." She stood up to me, eye to eye. "The question is, do you know how to use them?"

 I grinned. "You've got a mouth on you, don't you?"

"You're the one who asked the question."

My expression didn't change, but my fingers twitched, the way his jaw clenched a fraction.

"Whiskey?" I said handing her my glass.

She picked up the untouched whiskey and poured it over, spilling the amber liquid on the floor between us.

"I think I'd drink poison instead."

My smirk faded. She was courageous yes but she's too egotistical for her own good.

Damn.

I'd encountered enough women who thought they were tough. Fiorella didn't think so, she was.

I could tell it in her stance. In the way that she didn't fidget, that she never looked away. She wasn't afraid of me.

I didn't know if I liked this or not.

I'd been unable to respond before the first gunshot shattered the air.

The club that surrounded us became chaos.

Boom.

The entire building shook.

A deafening explosion came from the door, a shockwave that shook the club. The force sent bottles clattering off the bar, made men stagger backward. Screams tore through the air as fire and smoke consumed the exit.

Gunfire. Screams. Panic.

I pulled my gun, moving before I even processed the attack.

Bullets tore through bodies. Masked men stormed in through the broken doors, rifles at the ready. They were efficient, wasting no time, well-trained killers, not violent thugs.

I was already in motion, shooting back instinctively. I was made for this.

Who the fucking moron tries to attack our club especially when I am in the room.

Shouting. Shattering glass. Bodies scrambling in fear.

I saw the shooter a fraction of a second too late—

So did Fiorella.

She had turned, aiming , but the shot had caught her before she could fire.

Hit her in the shoulder.

She staggered, but she didn't fall.

Didn't scream.

Didn't do a thing except grit her teeth and lift her gun.

And shoot.

The man who'd shot her collapsed before he could attempt it again.

Blood began to seep into her outfit, but she stood, jaw clenched.

I exhaled a harsh breath, moving to her side, taking her by the arm.

"You're shot."

"I figured."

Her voice was tight with pain, but her eyes were still steady.

The club was now in full chaos , but I barely registered.

Because for the first time in a very, very long while, I was impressed.

Maybe Fiorella D'Angelo wasn't a legend.

Maybe she was something different.