Chapter 4

Fiorella

Pain scorched my shoulder like flames, but I hadn't time for pain.

I clenched my teeth, steeling myself against the pain as I shifted my grip on my gun. Blood soaked into my outfit, hot and sticky, but I didn't care. The son of a bitch who had shot me was already dead, but there were other perils in the room.

Panic had swept through the club like a disease. People were yelling, shoving each other to get out. Glass shattered. A table tipped over.

I barely registered any of it.

Because the moment I looked into Rocco De Luca's eyes, I knew that we were both thinking the same thing.

Eliminate the threat.

No argument.

No question

Only action.

He made the first move. A man rushed towards us from the left, gun in hand, but Rocco was faster. His bullet hit dead centre, and the body crashed to the ground before it could even reach us.

I spun around furiously, catching motion out of my peripheral. Another shooter—this one from the VIP section above, getting into place on the balcony.

I brought my gun to level.

Fired.

The shot hit him in the throat.

He fell, his body collapsing over the railing before hitting the floor of the dance below.

Rocco grunted low and approvingly. "Good shot."

I did not notice him as I was already scanning for more.

"Three o'clock," he whispered.

I turned to see a man raising his gun, firing—

Rocco moved faster than I could.

He shoved me out of the way, and his own shot went off at the same time. It was a good hit, straight to the heart. The man collapsed to the ground with a thud.

I scowled, standing up straight. "I had him."

"Sure you did," he said, not even looking at me as he reloaded. "You're bleeding, by the way."

"I noticed."

"Just making sure."

I rolled my eyes, stepping over bodies as we walked through the club. The damage was dying down—what was left of the attackers were dead or fleeing. Some of Rocco's guys had pinned one of them to the corner by the door, forcing him to his knees.

I breathed deeply, the adrenaline still racing through me.

"This wasn't random," I said.

Rocco's expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker of assent in his eyes.

"No," he said. "It wasn't."

We both knew what that implied.

Someone had planned this.

Someone had known we'd be here.

And someone had wanted one—or both—of us killed.

A slow smile spread across my lips. "Looks like I'm more popular than I thought."

Rocco snorted. "You're either flattered or angry. I can't tell which."

"Why not both?

He glared at me, shaking his head.

A groan from the ground turned me around. One of the attackers lived. Barely. I crouched beside him, grasping his collar. My shoulder complained, but I ignored it.

"Who hired you?" I asked.

The man spat blood, snarling. "Go to hell."

I smiled. "You first."

Before he could shift, I twisted his neck hard. The snap was quick, clean.

Rocco raised an eyebrow. "Efficient."

"Wasn't going to say a word."

"I know. Doesn't make it any less fun to watch."

I groaned my way to standing, the heaviness of the night weighing down on my bones. The ache was starting to insist on being noticed, but I was not going to let it have that satisfaction.

I looked back over my shoulder at Rocco. He was regarding me with intense interest, his face impassive.

For the first time, I saw something.

We worked well together.

It wasn't awkward, wasn't forced. Had been easy—like we'd done it a thousand times before, like we didn't need to speak to know exactly what the other would do.

That was strange.

And dangerous.

Because I didn't trust anyone.

"You should get that looked at," Rocco said, nodding toward my shoulder.

"I've had better."

He smiled. "Sure you have."

There was something in his eyes when he said it. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

Either way, I didn't appreciate it.

"You leaving?" I asked.

"For now." He moved behind me, then turned. "I'll be in touch."

Then he left.

I was there, bodies around me, blood on my skin drying, and something hit me that angered the hell out of me.

Rocco De Luca had just made himself impossible to ignore.

By the time I pulled up the long driveway to the D'Angelo estate, the adrenaline had dissipated, leaving me with only the familiar throb of exhaustion pressing down on me.

The mansion loomed in the darkness, a marble and power fortress.

I killed the engine, getting out into the cool night air. My shoulder hurt, but I pushed it aside.

It’s a good thing I saw the family doctor and had it taken care of but that didn’t make it hurt less.

The second I stepped through the large door, I knew I wouldn't be getting to my room unnoticed.

"Fiorella."

My father, Alessandro D'Angelo's, low voice reverberated through the high-ceilinged hallway like a warning bell.

I was standing across from him, down the hall by the stairs, arms crossed, piercing gaze scanning me.

Eyes that immediately darted to my shoulder.

Even in the dim light, I could see the grimace on his face.

"What happened?"

I drew a slow breath, already knowing there was no point in dodging the conversation.

"The meeting did not go as planned," I answered, rolling my shoulder slightly, experimenting with the pain.

His piercing eyes slit at the movement I made.

"You were shot." His voice was too soft. "Explain."

I walked past him, making my way to the study.

I needed a drink for this.

By the time I reached the huge oak desk, he was already standing behind me, his presence a silent demand for answers.

I poured myself a glass of whiskey, taking a sip before I finally turned to him.

"Someone had information that I was meeting Rocco," I said to him. "They ambushed us at the club."

A muscle in his jaw tightened.

"You think it was the same people who attacked Rafael?"

"Perhaps." I put the glass down. "Or perhaps someone doesn't like the prospect of a D'Angelo and a De Luca pairing up."

His silence was reflective, measured.

"And Rocco?"

I paused, for a mere fraction of a second.

"We took care of it."

"Together?"

"Yes."

Something changed in his face.

"And?"

I scowled. "And what?"

"Did he impress you?"

I glared. "I wasn't there to be impressed."

My dad smiled faintly, but something unreadable shone in his eyes.

"You're dodging the question."

"No, I'm refusing to answer it."

His low laugh stung a wave of annoyance down my back.

I was not in the mood for his teasing.

Before I could divert the conversation, his face clouded over, all amusement gone.

"If someone heard about the meeting," he said, "then someone close to us is revealing secrets."

I froze.

He was correct.

That kind of ambush did not occur by accident.

Someone had betrayed us.

I set my glass down on the table, slowly and deliberately.

"I'll discover who," I vowed.

My father nodded, not showing his feelings. "Good. Because if you don't..."

He leaned forward an inch or two, voice hardening to metal.

"—I will."