Chapter 6 Fiorella

Fiorella

The second the gun fired, I responded.

I grabbed Rocco's arm, pulling him in as I slammed the doors closed. A bullet struck the iron handle, shaking through my bones.

"Motherfucker," I snarled, already pulling out my gun from my holster.

Rocco had his out, too, eyes black with an icy calmness as he leaned back against the wall beside me. Footsteps crashed outside in the gravel, shadows flitting beyond the windows.

"Friends of yours?" he asked dryly.

"If they were friends of mine, they'd be dead already," I retorted, peering through the side window.

Three men. Dark suits. Guns.

Professionals.

Not some low-level morons attempting to make a point.

They weren't here to scare me.

They were here to kill me.

And maybe Rocco too.

Good luck with that.

I stood up to him. "How fast can you move?"

"Fasten than you," he said, that fucking smile pulling at his lips.

I tuned it out, already deciding.

"The left-hand door leads to my father's office. It's got bulletproof doors and a direct exit to the garage level. We go in quick, we arrive in one piece."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we kill every last one of them and take the scenic route."

He smiled. "I like your style, D'Angelo."

Another bullet struck the window, shattering the glass. I didn't wait. I spun around, firing three quick shots through the broken glass.

A grunt. A body falling to the ground.

One down.

Two to go.

"Move," I ordered, already moving forward.

Rocco was on my heels in a flash, matching pace as we sprinted down the hallway. The heavy thunder of boots behind us—fast, trained.

I wasn't worried.

I'd been trained too.

A shadow appeared at the other end of the hall, gun raised. I dropped low, sliding across the wet floor as I fired twice.

The first caught his shoulder.

The second between his eyes.

I was already up before his body hit the floor.

I heard Rocco whistle behind me. "Remind me never to piss you off."

"Smart man."

We turned the corner, the office door in sight.

Just a little farther

Pain exploded in my side as something weighty slammed into me.

I slammed into the floor with a thud, my gun flying from my grasp as the remaining attackers held me down.

I struggled, growling, but he was too powerful. His knee in my ribs, his hand clamped around my throat.

"You should have stayed out of it, princess," he snarled. "Now, I get to send your father a message—"

A gunshot boomed through the hallway.

The weight on top of me slumped, the man’s head snapping back before he crumpled onto the floor.

Behind him, Rocco stood, gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel.

His expression was unreadable as he looked down at me.

“You good?”

I shoved the dead man off me, rolling my shoulder with a wince.

“I’ve had worse.”

His eyes flickered to my side where blood stained my shirt from where I’d hit the ground.

"You're bleeding."

"And you're still standing here pointing that out instead of assisting me to my feet," I snapped.

He laughed a huff before extending his hand.

I hesitated.

Then accepted it, begrudgingly. His was a warm, hard, firm grip as he set me on my feet.

For a moment, we just stood there, gasping, surrounded by bodies.

Then I turned and pushed open the office door.

We entered, locking the door behind us.

The room was dark, but I knew every inch of it . I headed to the hidden panel by the bookcase, and I pressed the button.

The floor panel slid open, revealing me the stairs down to the underground garage.

I took a deep breath. "We made it."

Rocco still stared at me.

"This wasn't random," he whispered.

"No, it wasn't."

This was a warning sign.

A message flashed.

I had been betrayed.

And I was going to find out who.

As we pulled up to the underground garage, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I removed it, scowling at the unfamiliar number.

I didn't know—then answered it.

Silence.

Then a low, amused voice.

"You're a slippery one, Fiorella."

My hand cramped. "Who the fuck are you?"

Soft laughter.

"Somebody who just gave you a little preview of what's headed your way."

A shiver ran down my spine.

And then, dead line.

I stared at the dead phone screen, my fingers tightening around it.

"Who was that?" Rocco barked.

I hesitated. My heart was still racing, but not from the fight. Not from the blood on my hands or the ache in my ribs.

It was the voice.

So calm. So calculated.

Whoever it was, they weren't just another enemy firing bullets to make a point.

This was personal.

I took a slow breath, palming the phone. "A person who believes they can scare me."

Rocco was unconvinced-sounding. "And are you?"

I fixed him with a stare. "I don't do scared, De Luca."

There was something in his black eyes that flickered, something uninterpretable. He nodded barely.

"Good."

We moved toward the SUV. I got behind the wheel, barely wincing at the tenderness in my shoulder. Rocco got in beside me, watching as I entered the ignition code.

"You've got a plan?" he asked.

"Yeah," I growled, putting the vehicle into first gear. "Find the son of a bitch who planned this and make them wish they hadn't."

The engine came alive, and I sped out of the underground garage, tires screeching on the road. The city lights blurred past us, neon seeping into the darkness.

The silence between us was thick with unspoken ideas.

Then Rocco shifted. "You know this isn't over, right?"

"Of course, it's not."

This was only the beginning.

Whoever had sent those guys had done their homework. They knew where I'd be, who I'd be with.

Which meant that someone had talked.

And I was going to get them to tell me who.

We approached an intersection, the red light dangling a hard glow over the car hood. My fingers tapped on the steering wheel.

"Do you trust your father's men?" Rocco asked abruptly.

I glared at him slowly.

"What are you talking about?"

He held me in a hard stare. "I'm saying someone had some idea that you'd be at the club tonight. And unless you have a habit of sharing your activities with strangers, that means that someone close to you gave that to them."

I clenched my jaw.

I resented him for making a valid point.

I resented even more the fact that I had already been thinking along those same lines.

The light was green now.

I sped up, the car accelerating rapidly. "I'll take care of it."

Rocco did not argue.

We pulled up at a deserted warehouse near the docks in a couple of minutes. One of my father's hiding spots.

"You sure this is okay?" Rocco asked as I stepped out.

"Are you out?" I shot back.

He smiled. "Not a chance, D'Angelo."

Good.

Because I was not going to do this alone.

We approached the entrance, the metal door ajar. A bad omen.

I pulled out my gun. Rocco followed suit.

I kicked the door open with my foot. The warehouse was dark, shadows on the concrete floor. The air was heavy with the scent of blood.

I stepped inside, gun raised—

And froze.

A chair in the centre of the room, a man huddled over it, wrists tied behind his back. Blood radiating from under him, seeping into the cracks.

His throat was slit.

A message on the wall behind him in red letters.

You’re next, Fiorella.

I heard only Rocco curse next to me.

My fingers curled tight around the gun, my breathing even and controlled.

I edged closer, my stomach twisting as I saw the face of the man.

One of my dad's men.

One of the ones I'd trusted.

I breathed through my nose, chilled rage seeping deep in my bones.

War was what this was.

I couldn't get my voice out before a phone rang.

Not mine.

The dead man's.

A burner phone on his thigh, screen flashing with an incoming call.

The number was unlisted.

Rocco and I exchanged a glance.

Then, impulsively, I picked it up.

Silence.

Then, the same voice, smooth, calm, measured.

"I told you, Fiorella. This is just the beginning."

The line went dead.