Chapter 12 – Rocco
I step into the room and click the deadbolt. Outside, a red “No Vacancy” sign buzzes, its glow streaking across threadbare sheets. The ledger lands on the pillow with a dull thump, pages rustling with each breath.
Chiara stands by the bathroom door. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest. She watches me without blinking, eyes flicking briefly to the ledger, then back. Behind her, the door rattles.
I slip out of my jacket and let it fall on the nearest chair.
Its leather cushions sag under the weight.
I light a cigarette in front of the mirror.
The flame casts my reflection against the grimy glass: tired eyes, set jaw, hand on the lighter.
I inhale, hold it, then exhale in a long, steady line.
She’s alive. In front of me. And it still doesn’t feel real.
I stub the cigarette and crush it in the tray. I watch Chiara’s reflection as I turn. My gaze drifts to her arm, sleeve rolled up, where a bruise blooms dark and purple.
I stub out my cigarette against the metal tray and let the smoke curl upward. As I turn back to Chiara, I notice the bruise—her sleeve rolled past her elbow, a dark purple blossom spreading across her forearm. I hadn’t seen it before.
“You’re hurt,” I say, stepping closer.
She hitches her shoulders and tries to pull the sleeve down. “It’s nothing.”
I shake my head and crouch beside her. “Show me.”
She winces as I lift her arm, inspecting the bruise. “I didn’t have that earlier,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
Her eyes flick away. I reach for the first ‐ aid kit on the dresser—gauze, antiseptic, medical tape. I open a wipe and dab lightly at the worst part of the bruise. She flinches, but not because it stings—because I’m touching her.
“Chiara,” I say gently, “when did you get this?”
She exhales, stiff ‐ shouldered. “I—was trying to move some equipment in the garage. Didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” Her voice wavers.
“Dragging heavy stuff by yourself?” I press the fresh gauze over the bruise and wrap it with tape. My fingers linger on her skin, careful. “You could’ve broken something worse.”
She watches me work, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”
I finish bandaging and hold her gaze. “You don’t have to handle the heavy work alone,” I tell her. “I can take care of that.”
Her eyes soften, and for a moment, I see relief mingled with something fragile—trust. I tuck the kit away and stand, keeping my hand on her arm until she nods.
“You owe me a headache later,” she says quietly, but there’s gratitude in her tone.
I offer a small smile. “I’ll take it.”
Back in the room, the hum of a static TV fills the space. Chiara stands by the dresser, fingers fidgeting with a makeup case. She’s alert, raw, patching herself back together like each layer of gauze is a promise.
I sit on the edge of the bed. My boots press into the thin carpet. “You gonna tell me why you vanished?” I ask, voice even.
She crosses her arms. “Because staying meant dying. For both of us.”
I let that sink in. I clap my hands together once. “And now?”
She glances at the ledger, then back at me. “Now I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Except this.” She steps toward me, heels clicking on the floor.
I spread my legs, staying low. She stops between them, close enough I can smell her—soap and adrenaline and something softer beneath. I reach up, fingers brushing the nape of her neck.
She shivers against my hand. “Rocco….”
Her name tastes like promise and confession. My thumb glides along her jawline, but I hesitate. I need to be gentle. This moment isn’t about passion; it’s about finding truth.
She leans in, brushing her lips to mine. A soft press. A test. I close my eyes and respond, tipping her head back. My other hand cups her cheek. She melts against me, breath warm. The ledger, forgotten, rustles on the bed behind us.
I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She parts her lips, welcoming me deeper. My heart thumps—steady, alive.
We kiss, slow and certain. Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders, exploring. I hold her, matching her rhythm. Every second grounded in a quiet promise: we’re here now, together, finally.
And for once, all the betrayals and lies fall away beneath this simple, steady kiss.
The bed groans under our weight, the thin mattress sinking as Rocco kneels in front of me, his hands already at the hem of my shirt. His fingers graze my stomach, warm and rough, and he pulls the fabric up slowly, exposing my skin inch by inch—my navel, my ribs, the curve of my breasts.
My nipples harden in the cool air as he tugs the shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. His eyes rake over me, dark and hungry, lingering on the way my breasts rise with each breath. I don’t wait for him to move next.
I grab his shirt, yanking it up, my nails scraping his abs as I pull it off, revealing his broad chest, the dark hair trailing down to his jeans, the Ferrano tattoo stark against his skin.
We’re not rushing, not apologizing—just taking our time, rediscovering every inch of each other. My hands roam his chest, fingers digging into the hard muscle, feeling the heat of him, the faint sheen of sweat already forming.
He groans low in his throat, a sound that makes my core clench, and I push him back onto the bed, climbing over him, my knees straddling his hips.
My Ferrano chain dangles between us, the cold silver brushing his chest as I lean down, my lips crashing into his.
His mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine, wet and slick, as his hands grip my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp into the kiss.
“You still want me?” I whisper, my lips brushing his, my breath ragged.
“Never stopped,” he growls, his voice rough, his hands tightening on me like he’s staking a claim.
I grind my hips down, feeling the bulge in his jeans, thick and hard, pressing against my core through my pants.
The friction sends a jolt of heat through me, and I moan softly, rolling my hips again, slower this time, teasing him. His hands slide up my back, unclasping my bra with a flick of his fingers, and it falls away, my breasts spilling free.
He doesn’t hesitate, cupping them, his thumbs brushing my nipples, circling the hard peaks until they ache. I arch into his touch, my head tipping back, and he leans up, his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking fast, then slow, drawing a sharp cry from my throat.
“Fuck, Rocco,” I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as he switches to the other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, biting just enough to make my pussy throb.
My hands move to his jeans, fumbling with the button, the zipper, desperate to feel him.
He lifts his hips, helping me shove the denim down, his boxers following, until his cock springs free, thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling the veins pulse under my fingers, the way he twitches when my thumb swipes over the head.
He groans, his head falling back, his abs flexing as I pump him, my grip firm, my pace deliberate.
“Chiara,” he grits out, his voice strained, and I lean down, licking a slow stripe up his shaft, tasting the salt of him, the heat of his skin.
His hips jerk, a low curse escaping his lips, and I take him into my mouth, my lips stretching around his thickness, my tongue swirling around the tip before I slide down, taking him deeper.
His hand fists in my hair, guiding me, not forcing, just enough to make me feel his need. I bob my head, sucking hard, my cheeks hollowing, my other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, his voice hoarse, and I pull off with a wet pop, smirking as I climb back up, straddling him again.
My pants are still on, and he doesn’t waste time, his fingers undoing the button, yanking them down along with my panties.
I kick them off, and now I’m bare, my pussy slick and aching, hovering over his cock.
I rub myself against him, sliding my wetness along his length, coating him, teasing us both until I’m trembling, my clit throbbing with every pass.
“Stop fucking teasing,” he growls, his hands gripping my hips, and I laugh, low and breathy, before I sink down, taking him inside me inch by inch. He’s big, stretching me, the burn delicious as I adjust, my walls clenching around him.
I moan, loud and unashamed, my hands braced on his chest as I start to move, rocking slowly, feeling every ridge, every pulse of him inside me.
His hands guide my hips, his fingers digging into my skin, urging me to go faster, but I keep it slow, deliberate, savoring the way he fills me, the way my body responds.
Our mouths meet again, the kiss sloppy, all tongues and teeth, his hands roaming my body, squeezing my ass, my breasts, pinching my nipples until I whimper into his mouth.
I shift, leaning back, my hands on his thighs for balance, and the new angle makes him hit deeper, brushing that spot inside me that sends sparks through my veins.
“Right there,” I pant, my hips grinding harder, faster, chasing the pleasure building in my core. He thrusts up to meet me, his cock slamming into me, the wet sound of our bodies filling the room, mingling with our gasps, our moans.
I lean forward again, my breasts pressing against his chest, the chain cold between us, and he flips us, rolling me onto my back without pulling out.
My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he thrusts hard, his hips snapping, his cock driving into me with a rhythm that makes my toes curl.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot against my skin. I rake my nails down his back, hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, his thrusts growing rougher, more desperate.
He pulls out suddenly, and I whine at the loss, but he’s on me in an instant, his mouth between my legs, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate path through my folds. I cry out, my hips bucking as he sucks my clit, his lips closing around it, his tongue flicking fast, then slow, driving me wild.
Two fingers slide inside me, curling, pumping, hitting that spot while his mouth works my clit, and I’m shaking, my hands fisting the sheets, my orgasm building so fast it’s dizzying.
“Rocco, I’m gonna—” I gasp, and he doesn’t stop, his fingers fucking me harder, his tongue relentless, until I come, hard, my pussy clenching around his fingers, my body shuddering as pleasure rips through me.
He doesn’t give me time to recover, climbing back up, his cock sliding back inside me in one smooth thrust. I’m still sensitive, every movement amplified, and I wrap my legs around him, my heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
He fucks me slow now, each thrust deliberate, his eyes locked on mine, watching every reaction, every flutter of my lashes, every moan that spills from my lips. My hands roam his body, squeezing his biceps, his ass, pulling him closer, needing every inch of him.
“Harder,” I beg, my voice raw, and he obliges, his thrusts picking up speed, his cock pounding into me, the bed creaking with every movement.
My breasts bounce with each thrust, and he leans down, sucking a nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing, sending another jolt of pleasure through me.
I’m close again, the pressure building, and I reach down, rubbing my clit, my fingers slick with my own arousal.
He groans at the sight, his thrusts growing erratic, his control slipping.
“Come with me,” he grits out, and I do, my second orgasm hitting like a tidal wave, my pussy clamping down on him, my body shaking as I scream his name. He follows, his cock pulsing inside me, spilling hot and thick, his groan loud and guttural as he collapses onto me, his weight heavy, grounding.
We lie there, tangled in the sheets, sweaty and spent, my legs still wrapped around him, his cock softening inside me.
I breathe into the hollow of his throat, my lips brushing his skin, tasting the salt of him.
He watches the red LED clock tick past midnight, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my hip.
I laugh, but it fades as reality creeps in. “Javier knows. He’s not bluffing.”
“Then we hit him first,” Rocco says, his voice steady.
“You trust me to do that?” I ask, needing to hear it.
“I trust you to finish it,” he says, unwavering.
I turn toward him, my body pressed against his. “What about us?”
“We don’t get an easy answer. Just a choice,” he says, his hand cupping my face.
“And you’re choosing this?” I ask, my voice soft.
“I’m choosing you,” he says, and I feel it deep in my chest.
I lay my head on his chest, my fingers tracing his Ferrano tattoo. “Don’t fall asleep. You snore.”
“You love it,” he chuckles, his voice rumbling.
“Maybe,” I say, smiling, my lips brushing his skin.